They Can't Take That Away
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE Jed Bartlet's last Inauguration Day brings joy for the family and administration, but unexpected complications bring both personal and professional threats.
1. Chapter One Jed

Linda came up with this idea several months ago and has allowed me to play with it. Hope you enjoy it.  
POV: Jed Spoilers: U.S. Poet Laureate Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not ours. They're AS's. We're having fun with them, though.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 1/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Josiah Bartlet didn't remember ever being cold in his life, not really cold. Leo was forever berating him for his New Hampshire acclamation to freezing weather. As he stood under the heavy overcast sky, amid the swirling snowflakes, sans coat, only in his shirtsleeves, he heard yet again the exasperated exclamation of his longtime friend.  
  
"Good God. Don't you every worry about getting pneumonia or something?"  
  
He didn't turn. No need to. They had danced this waltz before. "Nah. This is just brisk."  
  
Leo snorted. "Well, come on, Frosty. The world is waiting."  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
"Abbey's waiting."  
  
Now he did turn. "Oh no. No, no. She can't claim that. I've been out here thirty minutes while she finished her hair or her dress or some other damn thing to make her beautiful." It was entirely possible that he had spent the majority of his married life waiting for Abbey to get dressed.  
  
Leo smiled. "And she is beautiful."  
  
The simple observation disarmed him, stopped him cold at the beginning of his rant. A softness touched his eyes and he smiled, too.  
  
"Yeah," he agreed," she is." Shaking the melting flakes from his hair, he stepped back into the warmth of the Oval Office.  
  
As he passed his desk, his glance caught the calendar. Charlie always had it turned to the correct date by the time he made it to the office. Usually, he ignored it, but today he allowed his gaze to linger.  
  
January 20.  
  
Inauguration Day.  
  
The historian in him noted that it had not always been so. The Twentieth Amendment changed it. The majority of his predecessors had taken their oaths on March 4, but to diminish the effects of a Lame Duck president, which he thankfully was not, it had been moved up so that only about two months passed in transition from one chief executive to another.  
  
Inauguration Day. His last, he thought with a sudden pang. The last one. And he would make it memorable if he could - savor each moment, each scene, each handshake. He would do his part, as well. The oath lay in its entirety in his head. The Chief Justice would not have to prompt him once. He would say it without pause, without break.  
  
"You ready?" Leo asked, watching him with a curious expression that floated somewhere between elation and melancholy. They felt the same way. A great day - but the last one.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
His morning coat lay on the back of a chair and he flipped it over his head and shrugged into it, tugging down the vest. Leo fell into step beside him, neither man speaking, as they strode back outside and down the colonnade to the Residence. He suppressed a smirk as his friend pulled his overcoat more tightly around his neck. The wind bit at his own ears, pierced the relatively light cover of his clothes. Nippy, he admitted silently, but never aloud. He couldn't give Leo the satisfaction.  
  
"Twenty-eight degrees," the chief of staff muttered, hand at his throat, clutching the lapels together. "We could've been doing this in March - at least closer to spring thaw."  
  
With effort, he refrained from running into a detailed explanation of the reason for changing Inauguration Day. Leo knew as well as he did why. So, as a present to his friend, he kept his mouth shut, and Leo would never know what sacrifice he had made.  
  
"Hello, Mister President." Abbey's voice greeted him at the doors to the portico, and even before he saw her, his body remembered the way she had said those words on Election Night.  
  
Okay, think about something else. Not the time - or place - for that.  
  
This time, of course, her tone was different, totally devoid of the seductive teasing - well almost. Abbey's voice was never totally devoid of seduction, even when she called him jackass. Sometimes especially when she called him jackass.  
  
Maybe she'd call him "Mister President" again later, the way she had done it on Election Night.  
  
"Doctor Bartlet," he acknowledged and he saw from her lifted brow that she heard the subtle come-on in his tone, as well.  
  
She wore a navy suit, tailored perfectly to accent her attributes - and there were many - short skirt that showed off those killer legs. And her ubiquitous heels gave her a little more height - perfect for a kiss, which he took, surprising her.  
  
"You look great," he whispered at her ear as he withdrew.  
  
Leo cleared his throat and stepped back to give them a little privacy.  
  
"You don't look so bad yourself," she returned, smoothing a hand down his chest and brushing at the charcoal fabric. "As a matter of fact, you are devilishly handsome."  
  
"Devilishly?" He grinned. "I'll show you how devilish I can be later this evening."  
  
She purred. Dear God, she actually purred. He glanced toward Leo to see if he had heard, but the chief of staff studiously ignored them. Good. Because that purr was for her commander-in-chief's ears only.  
  
"Mister President?" This time, the title was completely different - thank goodness. Ron Butterfield approached from outside, bringing in a blast of frigid air as he entered. Leo grunted. "Are you ready, sir?" asked the agent.  
  
After receiving an affirmative smile from Abbey, he nodded, waving away the heavy overcoat held ready for him by his protector. Whatever Ron's opinion of his refusal, the agent kept to himself. Even Abbey allowed him this gesture, knowing, as he did, that for MS hot temperatures were more likely to cause problems than cold. Besides, he truly did not feel as if he needed the coat. As Leo had noted on numerous occasions, he was freakishly strange that way. Nevertheless, Abbey had reminded him about the untimely demise of William Henry Harrison and his brief month in office, stuck down by pneumonia after he waxed a little too long on a two-hour inauguration speech. Best not to push his luck. Toby, Will, and he had limited themselves to twenty minutes, long enough to make the point, short enough to keep interest - and his health.  
  
And so the festivities began. From the moment they stepped into the limousine, despite his struggle to savor each moment, to commit the details of the day to memory, time raced along. The singing of the National Anthem by Renee Fleming, the literary selection by Tabatha Fortes, the oath, with Abbey holding the bible Father Cavanaugh had presented him on his first communion. And he followed through with his pledge. The Chief Justice simply nodded for him to begin. He took it from there. Not one stumble. Not one hesitation.  
  
"I, Josiah Bartlet, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States." Deep breath, determined jaw. "So help me God."  
  
Wild applause and cheers echoed off the hallowed walls of the Capitol. Then came the speech that Toby and Will had labored over, that he had marked up and down and finally accepted as gold. Reminding himself of Franklin Roosevelt's advice on speechmaking, he stepped to the podium.  
  
Be sincere, be brief, be seated -  
  
"Today has been a day of celebration. Celebration of a nation, of a people. Celebration of an idea, of a philosophy. Celebration of a past, of a present, and of a future.  
  
"But more than a celebration, it has been a day that reminds us why the United States is the greatest nation on earth. We are idealists. We have hope. We look into the future and see the best we can see. Woodrow Wilson noted that people sometimes called him an idealist. His response to that was to say that that was the way he knew he was an American."  
  
As he spoke, he pulled the words with him, let them float about the crowd, through the cameras. He weaved the noble thoughts into a tapestry of ideas and plans and philosophies, created by all of them, but delivered by him alone. And they went with him, carried by the power of his voice, the sincerity in his heart, the confidence in his eyes.  
  
Finally, he reached the end. "Abraham Lincoln said, 'No man is good enough to govern another man without that other's consent.' I am honored that you have allowed me to serve you, to govern this great country. Together we look to the future, to the bright hope that is there. Together we will soar toward that hope, that future, for ourselves, for our children, for their children, and for the children of the world. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America."  
  
The ovation lasted on and on until finally, after numerous nods of appreciation and an emotional gesture of his fist over his heart, he withdrew, still hearing the cheers. The moment was a high, but they still had far to go.  
  
They walked down Pennsylvania Avenue. Ron had pushed him to ride, almost threatened, but he wouldn't budge on this. He wanted to do it - to show the faithful, loyal citizens who had given him a landslide that their confidence had not been misplaced, that he was capable of carrying out their mandates, that he would not falter - emotionally or physically - as their President. So they walked, he and Abbey hand-in-hand. Liz, Ellie, Zoey, Annie, flanked by an army of secret service agents, a compromise for Ron. Snipers swept the area, perched on the roofs of every building between the Capitol and the White House. But they walked, and as they did, the clouds gave way to brilliant sunlight, glinting off the pure white snow. A portent? A foretelling of a bright four years? He chose to believe so.  
  
He squeezed Abbey's hand, leaned in to kiss her without breaking stride. The crowds lining the street screamed in appreciation and encouragement, drawing grins from their President and First Lady. And he felt good, damned good. Not until they neared the White House gates did he notice the twinge in his thigh, the brief swimming sensation in his head.  
  
Oh hell. Not now. Not now.  
  
With effort, he forced back the weakness, surprised when it retreated without much protest. He would deal with that later, address the implications of the moment at another time. Today was for celebrating. He'd think about the other tomorrow. Just like Scarlett, he decided with a sour chuckle.  
  
But he had not been quick enough in masking the brief falter. Abbey turned to him. "What?"  
  
He shook his head, not ready to burden her, not willing to spoil her mood. "Nothing," he said, voice elevated to be heard over the cheers. "I was just thinking what a sexy First Lady you are."  
  
She smirked and looked around to see if anyone had heard. "Jed!"  
  
"Well, it's true. Think of all the First Ladies. Can you name me one who was sexier than you are?"  
  
Shaking her head, she laughed and resumed her random waves to the gawkers and well-wishers alike. "Can you name me one who was sexy at all?"  
  
"Edith Roosevelt."  
  
"Attractive, yes, but sexy - "  
  
"Theodore must have thought so," he claimed. "They had five kids."  
  
"Five?"  
  
He grinned at the horror on her face when she realized she had opened the door for trivia. "Theodore Junior, Archie, Ethel, Quentin, and - " Well, damn it. He used to know them. Had just read the latest biography of the flamboyant man.  
  
"Alice?" Abbey supplied, looking a little smug.  
  
But he gave her smug back. "His daughter, not hers."  
  
"It doesn't matter -"  
  
But it did. "Wait a minute. I'll get it."  
  
"Jed, it's okay -"  
  
"No!" He said it much harsher than he meant to and Abbey looked at him in shock. Realizing they were still the focus of the crowds, he forced a smile back on his face. "I just - it's right on the tip - " His fingers snapped suddenly. "Kermit! Kermit. I knew I knew it."  
  
Abbey watched him warily and he sensed a suspicion from her that was probably not unfounded.  
  
"Okay," she finally conceded reluctantly. "Although I don't think naming her child Kermit was too sexy."  
  
He ignored her. "Jackie Kennedy." That was an easy one. He should have thought of her first.  
  
"Okay." Not as reluctant, this time.  
  
"Grace Coolidge." He had seen a painting somewhere, the Smithsonian, maybe - her official portrait - and was struck by the beauty.  
  
"Grace Coolidge?"  
  
"Sure. And Dolley Madison was supposed to be pretty hot, herself."  
  
From the look she gave him he was relatively certain that, had they not been surrounded by thousands of people - and on international television as well - she would have slapped his arm. He was a little surprised she didn't do it anyway. "That's - that's almost sacrilegious, Jed Bartlet."  
  
But he only grinned, completely satisfied with her response. It wasn't often he could play her like that. "She stood up to the British - kept them from taking George Washington's portrait."  
  
"And that makes her sexy?"  
  
He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe. Shows she was fiery, anyway." Now he leered at her, at least as much as he could leer with the world watching. "And you know how I like fiery women."  
  
Her retort was cut off, as he had planned, since they had entered the grounds, now, met by John Hoynes and his wife. Did they call the Vice President's wife the "Second Lady" he wondered suddenly. Certainly didn't seem very dignified.  
  
Hoynes extended his hand and he took it. Their relationship had improved in the past few months. No one would call them friends, by any stretch of the imagination, but they had reached a mutual attitude of respect - and occasionally - of camaraderie.  
  
Hoynes' revelation that he drank in college and still considered himself an alcoholic had given Jed new insight into his "back up." A greater sense of the man's character. And it was a pleasant shift in opinion.  
  
"Mister President," the tall Texan greeted.  
  
Jed returned the shake. "John. Beautiful day."  
  
"Yes, sir. It certainly is."  
  
They both knew they referred to more than just the weather.  
It seemed only a few minutes had passed before he looked outside and saw the festive lights of the city, celebrating with them, beckoning the honorees, and the VIPs, and the just plain old Americans who had splurged on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to see a President inaugurated. He stood at the window of their bedroom, already changed into his white tie and tails, waiting, as usual, for Abbey to finish. They had to hit the balls - and there were no less than ten at which the First Couple would make an appearance.  
  
He sighed. All he really wanted to do now was slide himself into the bed that tempted him only a few feet away. The Inaugural ceremony, the walk from the Capitol in freezing temperatures, and the subsequent photo sessions and meetings had drained his energy reserves. Not as if he didn't spend just as much time every day on the job. But this was different. He had to be "up" every minute, had to be at the top of his game each second. No time to put his feet up, no time to grumble about this or that, no time to trade barbs with Debbie Fiderer or even Leo. And as minor as that seemed, those moments gave him the breaks he needed to make it through.  
  
He tried to push back the fatigue that pressed down on his shoulders, tried to break through it, even, before Abbey came in and saw. She could read him. Despite his brush off that afternoon, he knew she sensed something was up, knew she wouldn't let him by with it, not for long, anyway. Sighing, he tested his body, willing it not to betray him. The twinge was gone, the dizziness absent. Okay. That was good. Maybe it really was nothing. Maybe it had just been a momentary stumble that anyone could have under such pressure and stress.  
  
Feeling a little lighter, he turned, just as his wife emerged from the bathroom. And he felt weak again, but not from any illness. God, she was beautiful. He ran his eyes down her body. The simple burgundy gown allowed her natural elegance to dominate, accented by only a strand of pearls and matching earrings. He had given them to her on one of their anniversaries, couldn't remember which one exactly.  
  
"Hey, gorgeous," he smiled, allowing the quick flush of desire he felt to color his voice.  
  
"Why, Mister President," she noted warmly, "is that the Constitution in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"  
  
Guilty. He didn't need to look down. Knew the flush of desire had affected more than just his voice. "I think, Doctor Bartlet," he said, stepping closer, "that there are numerous laws supported by the Constitution that I would like to break with you right now."  
  
"Really?" She was touching him, her skilled hands sliding up to brush the hair at his temple, to caress his neck, his jaw. "You still have the 'elastic clause'."  
  
"Hmm?" He was having trouble concentrating.  
  
The sexy tone of her voice seemed strange as she whispered the location of her reference. "Article One, Section Eight - " Now she flicked her tongue over his lips. "Clause Eighteen. To do whatever is 'necessary and proper - '"  
  
His patience had ended and he pulled her hard against him, his hands on her hips. "It's that 'proper' part that's going to get me in trouble," he growled just before he took her mouth with his, pushing his tongue between them.  
  
She groaned, letting her body arch into him, rubbing her pelvis against his erection, now full and aching. He lost all reason, his brain dismissing any obligations they might have - any duties to appear at a ball. America could wait. But as he shifted to guide her toward the bed, she slipped from his grasp and stood, no longer touching him, her breath still coming fast, but her eyes halting the escalating passion.  
  
He felt his body lurch toward her. "Abbey?" Please, don't stop now. I don't think I can stop.  
  
"You're okay," she observed.  
  
What? What the hell - "I will be in a few minutes, Hot Pants," he said, voice strained. "Come back over here."  
  
She looked as if that was just what she wanted to do, but she didn't move. "This afternoon. What happened?"  
  
Oh hell. Please don't say that's why you did this, to check me out. "What are you talking about?" The innocent game worked sometimes.  
  
She glared at him.  
  
But not tonight, apparently.  
  
"During the walk. What happened? Were you dizzy?" Now her eyes flashed, demanded the truth.  
  
Well, damn it. He wondered if he still had a chance for sex if he confessed. "Just for a second," he admitted. "But it passed. Could have been anything."  
  
"Um hmm." Not buying it.  
  
"Really." Hell, this was putting a damper on his hopes. He stepped toward her to take her hands in his. She remained stubbornly separated, despite that. "Abbey, I promise, it was nothing."  
  
"How do you feel now?"  
  
"Frustrated," he declared, but she didn't fall for the misdirection, so he tried to put every ounce of sincerity he could into his face. "I'm fine, Abbey, really. No dizziness, no twinge - " Damn it. He hadn't meant to say that.  
  
Sure enough, she pounced, pulling her hands away and dragging her eyebrows together. "Twinge? Where? Your thigh?"  
  
He nodded. No need to deny it now. "Just a little one. But it was gone almost immediately, I swear. And hasn't come back."  
  
"Jed - "  
  
"Abbey," he coaxed, "it's nothing. I would know. I would tell you."  
  
"That is debatable," she sighed, but he sensed her acquiescence and took the momentary weakness on her part to press for victory.  
  
Drawing her to him, pressing their bodies together, he showed her that he had not completely lost his arousal. "See? No problems, here. What do you say, Sweet Knees? A little appetizer before the main course?"  
  
Smirking, she allowed him to rub against her. "We're already late as it is. If you had been ready - "  
  
"Me? Are you - "  
  
But she stopped his outraged response with her mouth and he didn't mind losing at all that way. The kiss was slow and hot and he couldn't stop the groan that sounded low in his throat when she pulled away. His mind clouded, his judgment faltered. All he could think of was the feel of her beneath him, of those legs wrapped around him. His head swam, his body almost shook with need, but she didn't let him embrace her again.  
  
"Hold that thought," she whispered, letting her hand brush the hardness at his groin. "How many balls are there?"  
  
"Uh - What?"  
  
"Tonight. How many dances?"  
  
Oh. "Ten, I think." He tried to pull her back.  
  
She resisted. "How long?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"How long do we have to stay at each?"  
  
Again, he made an attempt to hold her. "At least ten seconds."  
  
Nodding, she took his hand and urged him toward the door. "All right, then. We'll continue this later."  
  
Oh God. He wasn't sure he could walk out of there. Knew he couldn't right then. But she was right. They were late. Damn it. There was no time. Still, he knew he would be hard pressed - so to speak - to keep his mind, and his eyes, and his hands, off her the rest of the evening.  
  
He surrendered only because of the hope she gave him. "Promise?" he grinned when his brain began to clear.  
  
Her eyes did, indeed, hold promise. "Oh yeah."  
  
Still, he had no genuine confidence that he would make it and wished she'd let him coax her into bed. They could be fashionably late. He wondered if they had to make all ten balls -  
  
Somehow, they managed to wave, mingle, dance, and generally schmooz their way through nine parties without his making a fool of himself. But not without concerted effort on his part to ignore the striking vision of his wife. He saw both men and women watching her, suppressed jealousy at the appreciation in the eyes of senators, and representatives, and Washington's elite. He pacified himself with the assurance that she would be purring only for him tonight.  
  
The tenth ball. The last one. Almost home. And his feet would be glad. They entered to the traditional "Hail to the Chief," the guests clapping furiously. He had really looked forward to this one, wished it had been the only one he had to attend. His eye caught the reason for his anticipation. Across the room, standing respectfully along with everyone else, was the world's premier cellist.  
  
YoYo Ma bowed courteously, smiling at Abbey and him. He let his eyes move from the master musician to the master instrument and felt the combating feelings in his gut. A Stradavarius cello, one of only fifty made by the genius known for his violins. Impressive in itself, but that wasn't all. This particular instrument had been owned by Jacqueline duPre', a British cellist who, after a very promising early career, had to give up playing at the age of 28, having been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. She died at 42. It was a hard reminder of the potential of the disease, but he appreciated the message sent by her instrument, the beauty that it produced.  
  
And, of course, the music was incredible. Inspiring, touching, magical. All on a night that had already provided enough magic for Walt Disney, himself.  
  
Later, the dancing began, and Jed found himself extending a hand toward his wife, the entire ballroom watching as they kicked off the evening to one of Abbey's favorite Gershwin tunes, "They Can't Take That Away From Me."  
  
He sang along with the band, slaughtering the words, as usual, but she didn't seem to mind. He loved the feel of her in his arms, loved they way their bodies just seemed to fit, loved the warm desire that always rushed through him when they danced. He'd have to be careful tonight, though. It would be even more difficult to keep that desire between just the two of them after she had gotten him started earlier.  
  
"Not even Jackie Kennedy?" she asked mystically.  
  
It took a moment for him to connect the line of thought, but when he did, he smiled and shook his head. "Not even Jackie Kennedy. You are by far the sexiest First Lady there has ever been."  
  
"You just want to get lucky tonight," she accused, but her eyes smiled.  
  
"Babe, I've already been lucky tonight just getting to hold you." He hoped that hadn't sounded corny, because he really meant it.  
  
Apparently it didn't. Her eyes shone now. "All right, Jethro," she said, trying to bring the conversation back into less emotional territory. "You can stop now. You've got me."  
  
"Really? Because I think we could blow this joint right n - "  
  
The stumble was light, not really noticeable by anyone else, but it took him by surprise. What really bothered him was the abrupt sweeping weakness that followed. He worked to keep moving, to make it to the end of the song, but knew Abbey had felt it.  
  
"Jed?" Her voice was low, but the panic bled through anyway. "Jed, what's wrong?"  
  
He swallowed, hoping to force it back like he had earlier, but this time his body didn't cooperate. All right. Sit. Sit before you fall. Find a chair. "Abbey, I need - I need to - "  
  
She knew already, grasped his arm as casually as possible, smiling all the while to their fellow dancers. Try not to look alarmed, she seemed to be telling herself as they made it off the floor and to a corner of the room.  
  
"Can you lean against the pillar?" she was asking. "Or do you need a chair?"  
  
Could he lean? Maybe. That would certainly look better. He'd try. Nodding, he forced a smile and let the marble take some of his weight. Okay. Better. At least he was staying upright. He hoped no one could see the sweat pouring down his face, hoped they took the flush of his cheeks as the excitement of the day, or wind-burn from the outdoor festivities.  
  
Abbey stepped away to find him a glass of water and he felt a sudden regret that he had ruined her evening. He almost had her convinced it was nothing. Almost had himself convinced. And now -  
  
As the final notes of the song drifted away, he considered the irony of the title. "They Can't Take That Away From Me." Could they? Not easily, he knew that.  
  
He saw Abbey returning, and the fear on her face kicked at him, tore through his tenuous control. Somehow, he managed to keep standing. Somehow, he managed not to scream at the injustice, or even the lousy timing. Somehow, he managed to give her a nod of reassurance, even though he didn't feel reassuring at all. But he would not be the cause of pain for her - he would not.  
  
Whether this was fatigue from a long, hard day - or whether it was something worse, something he didn't want to contemplate at the moment, it would not beat him. Not now.  
  
If he could just get away for a few minutes, just sit for a while and catch his breath. Maybe they could slip out unobtrusively, unnoticed - just for a minute.  
  
"Well, Mister President, this is some par - Good Lord, are you okay?"  
  
Damn. So much for that plan.  
  
With sheer stubbornness, he managed to raise his head enough to find himself meeting the horrified gaze of his Chief of Staff.  
  
"Hey, Leo," he mumbled before his body abandoned him completely and from a strangely surreal distance he saw himself sliding slowly down the pillar. 


	2. Chapter Two Abbey

POV: Abbey Spoilers: "Dead Irish Writers," "Election Night," and "Arctic Radar" (only a little) and generally up through the present U.S. episodes. Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, but they have given us much pleasure.  
They Can't Take That Away 2/10 A West Wing Story  
  
By MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Abbey Bartlet smiled pleasantly at the well wishes thrown her way as she crossed the ballroom. She nodded to staff members and public officials. She spoke quickly to servers. She lifted a hand in greeting to supporters she barely knew.  
  
But what she really wanted to do was scream.  
  
Not tonight. Not this day. Let him have this day.  
  
Somehow she held her tongue, continued the charade that all was fine, managed not to jerk the glass of water impatiently from the bartender's hand.  
  
It had been such a good day, too. And she knew Jed was looking forward to their evening together. He had been very clear about his plans for later. Truth be told, she was, too, despite her earlier delays. She could imagine nothing better tonight than lying in his arms, his solid body against hers, his gorgeous voice murmuring beautiful words in her ear. It would be the perfect end to such a momentous day. Now -  
  
Now she was fighting the strong urge to scream, or hit something - or someone - or both. Preferably Jed. She knew that wasn't fair, but she had found, through the years, that drawing on anger enabled her to keep from collapsing into tears. It didn't develop from him, but she allowed it to be directed at him, since there was no one else to field it. It kept her from despair.  
  
"It's nothing," he had told her. "I would know." And she had almost been convinced. Wanted to be convinced. Desperately wanted to be convinced.  
  
A hard day, an emotional speech, a long walk in street shoes in the biting cold. Ten damn balls with an obligatory dance at each. It was only natural - maybe even expected - that he would be tired. Hell, she was tired, her legs aching from the day's exertions.  
  
But she should have known. Could kick herself for letting him sway her so easily. She supposed it was because she wanted to be swayed, wanted to believe it was nothing. And he had been persuasive with his words and with his body. Their banter about sexy First Ladies and their verbal foreplay, along with his obvious arousal, had distracted her enough to let it ride.  
  
That had not sustained him quite long enough, though. Maybe if they had only gone to nine balls. Maybe - Still, if she could get him out now, let him sit for a while, it would be okay. Even though her instincts told her differently, she still held on to the possibility that it was normal fatigue - until she got a clear view of him and saw Leo standing close. Very close. Too close. Suddenly, she realized the Chief of Staff wasn't just standing next to Jed; he was supporting him, one hand under an elbow, one leg braced against another.  
  
Oh God! Please don't let him collapse in front of everyone. He couldn't bear that.  
  
Fighting the instinct to rush to him, a move that would no doubt draw the very attention they sought to avoid, she steadied her pace. Don't run. Stay calm.  
  
A quick glance told her no one had noticed that the President was in distress. Leo obviously fought to keep the panic from his face, but it still brightened his eyes.  
  
She forgot about water, setting it down somewhere along the way. He couldn't hold it now, anyway. Standing in front of him, hoping to shield him from the crowd, she looked in his eyes, not liking the fact that they wouldn't focus on her. That they couldn't focus on her.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
Slowly, he looked down. "Hey."  
  
"Listen, we're going to turn around and go out that door right there." It was only a few steps away. Surely he could make it that far. She would cross her fingers if that helped.  
  
He nodded, eyes still unfocused. "Okay."  
  
Jerking her head to the side, she indicated that Leo should take one arm and she would take the other. But chief of staff hesitated.  
  
"Abbey, we can't."  
  
"What?" Then she realized what he was worried about. More hiding. More dishonesty. Well, that didn't really apply anymore, did it? The whole world knew he had MS. His country had re-elected him by a landslide with full knowledge that he suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. They didn't need to hide it. Still, the revelation that the President was having an attack on the very evening of his inauguration probably would do neither foreign nor domestic affairs any good. Best just to retreat quietly.  
  
"He's got to say something," Leo whispered, the panic now more evident on his face.  
  
She stared at him. Surely he had not just suggested that Jed actually address the room. Surely not.  
  
"It's expected," Leo explained. "If he doesn't speak, there will be questions, suspicions."  
  
Fighting back a strong urge to shake the shoulders of her husband's best friend, she hissed, "Leo, look at him. He's in no condition - "  
  
But the chief of staff ignored her, turning instead to address his boss. "Jed?"  
  
"Damn it, Leo!" she snapped, a little too loudly. Several heads turned their way. Lowering her voice, she still managed to keep the fury obvious. "Look at him!"  
  
He looked. And she looked, too. And to her surprise, behind the flush and the sweat, his eyes had re-focused on her. She read the determination in them, felt him straighten under Leo's grip. Dear God. He wasn't really going to -  
  
"Jed? Jed, you can't - "  
  
With effort, he swallowed and said softly, "I - Leo's - right, Abbey. I'm - okay."  
  
Yeah. Sure. I can see that. "Josiah Bartlet." He knew that inflection, she could tell and despite the gravity of the situation, she almost smiled when he winced.  
  
"Abbey," he said simply, and the tone settled somewhere between a plea and a command. She wasn't sure how he did that.  
  
Well, damn it. They were right. If they disappeared without a comment, without appropriate remarks, it would arouse suspicions. Maybe he could manage just a word or two of thanks, just a comment for the expectant crowd. She placed a hand on his shoulder, looked hard into his eyes to verify that he could do it - and almost recoiled at the flame in them. He was angry. Angry at what? Her? Himself? His body?  
  
"Jed?"  
  
The anger had given him strength, she saw, just as it gave her distraction. Perhaps he had conjured it for that very reason. Now he took a deep breath and smiled, not his usual heart-stopping grin, but a smile, nevertheless. "I'm ready."  
  
"Mister President?" The voice, low, but full of authority, drew the attention of all three. Ron Butterfield stood directly behind Leo, his gaze on Jed, his hands straight by his side. "May I be of assistance?"  
  
So the President's condition had not gone totally unnoticed. And it would be Ron, of course, who saw, who could tell things weren't exactly right.  
  
Leo glanced at her, not sure about what he should say, so she stepped forward, her hand still on Jed's shoulder. Might as well level with the agent. He wouldn't be fooled now, anyway. "Okay. Here's the thing. The President needs to make a few remarks before we leave."  
  
Ron waited, clearly understanding there was more to it.  
  
"The problem is, he's probably not going to be able to walk out of here on his own."  
  
No change of expression. The President's protector remained silent, accepting everything she said without comment.  
  
"We'll need to make it look as casual as possible, but he'll need help." She caught the grimace on Jed's face, the pain that came from having to face the fact that he couldn't do something on his own. But she couldn't think about that. It would destroy her own mask and they couldn't afford that right now.  
  
Ron nodded. Bless him. "Yes, m'am."  
  
"He can speak from here," Leo decided, then turned to Jed. "Okay?"  
  
He raised a shaking hand and wiped at his face. "Yeah."  
  
"You ready?"  
  
One more deep breath. "Yeah."  
  
Leo stepped away, carefully letting Jed's weight fall back against the pillar. When he reached the band, he whispered something in the conductor's ear and the music stopped abruptly. With an enthusiasm she knew he didn't feel, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the President of the United States."  
  
As one the entire room rotated to look their way, following Leo's gesture. Wild applause, cheers and whistles. It was a rowdy group, already well into their cups. Maybe he could pull it off, after all, if they were all drunk enough.  
  
Anxiously, she turned with them - and caught her breath. The transformation was almost unbelievable. Somehow he had managed to pull away from the marble, had locked his legs in place through sheer determination, and gifted his audience with an appreciative, genuine grin. He almost had her fooled, too. Almost. But she saw the tension in his jaw, watched the tightness around his eyes. And then she saw the very subtle motion behind him. Ron had moved so that his leg replaced Leo's, so that his body actually served as a brace, even though the appearance was one of mere proximity, not aid.  
  
Okay, she told herself - and her husband. Hang on.  
  
"My fellow Americans," he began, and there was only slightly less power than usual in his voice. "My - friends. Abbey and I would like to thank you for your support, and your encouragement - and your love. We feel blessed that you have 'fought the good fight' with us. That you have seen fit 'to run the race.'" Without shifting his gaze from the crowd, he reached a hand toward her. She took it and squeezed, hoping to push some of her strength through the connection.  
  
"And now, if you'll pardon us, we've had quite a day. I hope you'll continue to celebrate."  
  
He waved, and she prayed no one saw the effort it took for that gesture. But they cheered wildly again, throwing good wishes toward them. As Jed turned, she instinctively slipped her arm around his waist. His hand fell on her shoulder and they each took slow steps away from their admirers. To the rest of the room it looked as if the affectionate couple had had enough public partying and were retiring to their own private celebration. Knowing smiles followed them out.  
  
She could almost believe they had gotten away with it. Just a few more steps to the door. Almost there.  
  
"Excuse me, Mister President."  
  
What the hell -  
  
They all turned, Jed's arm still draped over her, her arm still firmly around his waist, doing more supporting than hugging. A fresh-faced young woman, reporter's notepad in hand, waited eagerly, and more than a little nervously. Her first big story, Abbey figured. Her first chance to get a quote from the President and she had to pick now. The First Lady toyed with the idea of just moving on. But Jed paused.  
  
"Yes?" he asked and she could have killed him. They had almost pulled it off, almost escaped with no one the wiser. Now, they had been stopped, by a reporter, no less. Now, the chances of being discovered increased tenfold. Once she got a good look at him they might as well make a public announcement.  
  
The woman smiled in surprised victory and pushed on with new-found courage. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mister President?"  
  
Go ahead. Get it over with.  
  
But the expected realization didn't come. Did she not see the flush of his cheeks, the trail of sweat down his face? Could she not tell he was staying on his feet by only the shadow of strength?  
  
"I wanted to know if you could give us one more dance, sir? You and the First Lady? Since it's your last inaugural ball. Just one more?"  
  
Oh, thank God. Thank God this girl had just stepped off the newspaper delivery truck. She was too green and too nervous to notice the obvious. "Your big chance and this is what you ask?" Abbey thought, nevertheless incredibly grateful that it wasn't "Are you having an attack, Mister President, because you look like crap."  
  
A couple of nearby eavesdroppers leaned closer and Abbey tensed in anticipation of Jed's reaction, but he squeezed her shoulder gently in reassurance.  
  
"What's your name?" he asked his impromptu interviewer.  
  
"Jacqueline," she answered a little breathlessly. "Jacqueline Handlin. From the Tallahassee Democrat."  
  
"I like the name of that paper," he noted, and she smiled back.  
  
Despite the weakness, despite the fear, his eyes shone suddenly with a glint of mischief. Uh oh. "Well, Miss Handlin," he said, seriously. "I do plan to have one more dance with my wife tonight."  
  
Okay, Jed. Clear that brilliant brain of yours.  
  
The reporter beamed.  
  
"But for this particular dance," he stressed, allowing a small smile to break through, his eyes holding hers with a power that didn't come from the office he held, "we don't need an audience."  
  
Oh God. Abbey heard Ron clear his throat. Leo looked down, attempting to suppress the grin that tugged at his mouth. She was trying, herself, to fight back the heat pushing into her cheeks.  
  
For a moment, Jacqueline Handlin looked at them curiously, brows drawn together in confusion. Geez, this girl was slow.  
  
Then it hit her. Abbey watched with satisfaction as her pale skin burned to a bright red, as her mouth opened and closed with the attempt to speak, as the notebook dropped from fumbling fingers, and pages scattered on the polished floor.  
  
"Oh - I - I - " she stammered, helplessly, unable to manage a coherent sentence, until for some reason her mouth blurted out, "Have a good time." Then she lost it altogether and simply stared.  
  
But Jed laughed out loud, deep and true, and Abbey was suddenly grateful to the hapless young lady who had inadvertently given her husband at least a moment's relief from the depressing development of the evening. As they moved away, she turned for one more glance at the reporter, who still stood, unmoving, almost in shock. Well, she would certainly remember her first interview with the President. If she recovered, Abbey felt certain that particular conversation would one day make its way into print.  
  
And it wouldn't bother her a bit. Maybe she could find a copy of the Tallahassee Democrat tomorrow.  
  
Coop had pulled the limo right to the door, as he would have anyway, and they made their way to it, Ron and Leo following closely. The snow, which had begun falling again that afternoon, now swirled menacingly around them, whipping their hair, stinging their skin. She tried to urge Jed into the car, to get him out of the storm, but he stubbornly insisted she enter first, and maybe that was best, to keep up appearances. But as soon as he slid in beside her, she let the façade drop. The door had barely closed when they pulled forward and Abbey's hands were at his throat, loosening the tie, slipping the coat from his shoulders.  
  
"Abbey," he protested weakly, any energy he had summoned vanishing as his head fell back onto the seat.  
  
"Shh. It's okay. Just lie back."  
  
"I'm really okay." But there was no strength in his assurance.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I wanted tonight - I wanted us to - "  
  
"Shh. We'll have our night."  
  
"I don't think - "  
  
"We'll have our night," she insisted, unbuttoning the vest and opening the shirt. "Maybe not this night, but we'll have it."  
  
"Okay," he agreed, eyes closing.  
  
With a suppressed sob, she smoothed his hair back, touched his forehead. Warm. Warmer than it should be.  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
With a start, she turned, having forgotten Leo was there. The pain on his rough features hurt her almost as much as the fatigue on Jed's.  
  
"Will he be - is he okay?"  
  
"Yes," she said, deciding that at that very moment. She couldn't contemplate anything else. "Yes." Once more to convince herself, as well.  
  
Outside, the air was almost totally white with the increase in precipitation. For the first time she noticed they seemed to be the only vehicle in sight and that the car moved more slowly than usual, almost crept along the Washington streets.  
  
"This looks bad," she noted to Leo, pressing a hand to Jed's forehead again. He didn't stir. That was not a good sign.  
  
"Ron told me the last weather report had a front coming in, but it wasn't supposed to be this heavy." He looked away from Jed and out the window. "Look's like we're in for a rough night. If this keeps up, we'll have a disaster tomorrow."  
  
Suddenly, the implications of such a storm knifed their way into her stomach. "Leo!" she gasped, not waiting for him to acknowledge her before she continued. "Where's Hackett? Is he at the White House?"  
  
Now the chief of staff looked decidedly alarmed. "No. He was - he was at - or was he? I don't know. I'm not sure." He turned immediately toward the front of the car. "Coop, get Ron Butterfield on the phone and have him locate Admiral Hackett. That's a priority."  
  
The driver acknowledged and they heard him making the call. After a long three minutes, he announced, "The Admiral is caught in the storm, Mister McGarry. Agent Butterfield said they were trying to get him to the White House to meet you."  
  
Damn it. Of all nights. Abbey worked again to stifle the scream that pushed at her throat. It might make her feel better, but it sure wouldn't have the same effect on Leo - or Jed, for that matter.  
  
Jed. She turned back to her husband, assessing his condition once again. Face still flushed, maybe more now. His right hand shook slightly as it rested on his thigh. With his eyes closed, she couldn't check, them, and decided it wasn't necessary at the moment. He needed to rest more than he needed her telling him something he already knew. But she couldn't stop the hand that made its way to his cheek.  
  
He leaned into the touch, just instinctively.  
  
"We're almost home," she whispered to him - and to herself, as well.  
  
But they were not almost home, even though normally they should have been. Instead, the limo inched its way over frozen streets, occasionally sliding on the slick surface. Please, she prayed earnestly. Please get us home. Get him home. She almost yelled for Coop to head to GW, but that was even farther away, even more dangerous in this weather. So home it was. Better than spending the night in a snowdrift. And that didn't seem to be totally out of the realm of possibility.  
  
Then suddenly they were moving again.  
  
"What happened?" Abbey asked, hand still on Jed's cheek.  
  
Leo shook his head just as Coop replied, "Snow plows, m'am. They'll clear the way for us to 1600. It'll still be tricky, but I'll get us back."  
  
She smiled at his confidence. "I know you will, Coop. The President and I appreciate it."  
  
And Jed would, if he were actually conscious at the time. Slipping her hand from his cheek, she ran a professional gaze over him, trying to determine the symptoms, working on a definite diagnosis, and knowing she might not ever have one. It was an attack, all right, but was it solely the MS, or had it been triggered by something else? A fever - which she knew he had - well over 100 from her best judgment. Dizziness. Pain or at least discomfort in his thigh. And probably other things he wasn't admitting to.  
  
"I wish I had my bag," she thought, wondering for a brief moment why she didn't. Then her stomach filled with that same sick sensation she got every time she remembered. She had forfeited the right to carry that bag, hadn't she? And for this very illness.  
  
Jed stirred, mumbling, and she brushed the hair from his forehead, a combination of sweat and melted snow wetting the blond-brown strands, now touched occasionally with gray.  
  
"Abbey?" Leo asked, and the fear on his face was only a harsh reminder of her own worries.  
  
"He needs a doctor, Leo." She admitted it now. It was more than just fatigue.  
  
"You're a doctor," he accused.  
  
"Not anymore." The words tasted bitter on her tongue.  
  
"We're almost there, Doctor Bartlet."  
  
Nothing in the tone of their driver's voice indicated he had heard the exchange, but his simple use of her title told her he had. The gesture touched her.  
  
"Thank you." And it was an acknowledgement for more than just the information. "What about Admiral Hackett?"  
  
"No word, yet, m'am." He sounded apologetic, almost as if he had let her down - let the President down.  
  
"Abbey?" It was soft, weak, but clear. She turned to him immediately. His eyes clouded with pain and fever, but he managed to lift his mouth in a tiny smile. "Hey, Babe. Sorry about this."  
  
Leo looked away, trying to give them at least a nod toward privacy.  
  
"Yeah," she whispered, combing the hair back at his temple. "Hell of a way to end the day."  
  
He tried to laugh, but didn't have enough energy to make it believable. "Not at all what I had planned."  
  
"How do you feel?" Of course she could take a pretty fair guess at that, but she wanted him to say, wanted to hear the list from his lips. How quickly he admitted to anything revealed almost as much as her visual exams.  
  
"I'm okay."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Now she caught his eyes and he at least had the decency to look sheepish. "I've felt better."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Jed, how do you feel?"  
  
Finally, he sighed and gave her a fading smile of concession. "Like crap."  
  
"Okay. Well, that's about how you look." The kindness in her voice took away any insult.  
  
"You're just a sweet-talker," he returned, his words slurring just a bit.  
  
God, she hated seeing him like this, knew he hated being seen like this. She wondered who would meet them at the White House, who he would rather have to help him upstairs. She didn't know if she and Leo could do it alone. Maybe with Coop's strength they could manage.  
  
"Really, Jed. I need to know." She tried to convey the seriousness of her question without completely breaking down.  
  
It must have worked, because he looked at her and she saw understanding in his face. Drawing a breath, he listed the symptoms. "Cold and shaky. My leg feels sort of numb. My neck aches and my throat hurts."  
  
Oh. Is that all? "Show me where your neck hurts."  
  
He ran a hand along the broad muscle that stretched from the back of his ear to his shoulder.  
  
"Vision?"  
  
"A little blurry," he admitted. An understatement, she was sure.  
  
"Are you nauseated?"  
  
He swallowed. "Some. If I move too much."  
  
The bright lights of the most famous house in America flashed into the windows and across their faces as Coop drove through the gates at the East Wing entrance. Abandoned by the plow on the street, the car crunched its way over the building ice and snow until it pulled to a stop before the South Portico.  
  
Thank God. Now if only Hackett would meet them. Before she could relate her plan for the next few moves to Leo, the door opened and the grim face of Ron Butterfield greeted them. She had not even noticed the Suburban following them. The agent stepped back to let her emerge, slipping only once on the snow before he gained command of it.  
  
The blast of air froze their breath, creating clouds of white vapor. The light little wisps of snow that dotted the sky earlier had been overpowered by battering, stinging sheets. Holy Mary, it was cold. Mentally, she damned her husband for his insistence on going without an overcoat. But maybe it wouldn't hurt too much. In fact, maybe the cold would fortify him enough to get to their room.  
  
"Can you walk, sir?" Ron asked.  
  
Jed nodded impatiently and Abbey closed her eyes against the pain of seeing him fight to stand on his own. But the moment he planted his right foot, the leg betrayed him. He would have fallen if Ron had not been there instantly.  
  
"I'll help you, Mister President," he said, and even though it wasn't a request, the respect in his voice remained steadfast.  
  
Abbey sighed, knowing it was bad when Jed merely raised his arm to place it around Ron's shoulder. The agent's arm moved behind Jed's back to catch him snugly at the waist, and the two headed toward the entrance, one good step followed by one bad step.  
  
To her relief, Charlie greeted them at the door. Even with all his concentration on simply walking, Jed glared at him. "What are you doing here at this time of night, Charlie?"  
  
As usual, the young man seemed unperturbed by his commander-in-chief's ire. Maybe he knew it was mostly an act, anyway. Still, she could see the concern in those dark eyes, noticed the hesitation as he apparently contemplated offering his assistance.  
  
But his answer was smooth. "You know. Just hangin' around. Didn't know what to do with myself leaving this early."  
  
She smirked. It had to be past midnight now.  
  
"Besides, you just fired your entire cabinet. I didn't want to take a chance."  
  
Jed's head shot up. "I did not - " When he saw the smile on his aid's face, he managed a chuckle. "Good idea. You never know - "  
  
But his fading strength deserted him completely and he stumbled. Charlie's façade dropped. He lurched forward, taking up a position on the other side of the ill man. Ron nodded in agreement and gratitude and they picked up the pace, practically dragging the President of the United States between them.  
  
Just as they reached the elevator, Jed moaned. "Wait."  
  
"We're almost there, sir. We need to get you - "  
  
"Abbey!"  
  
She knew that tone, knew it was urgent. Disregarding heels and dragging hem, she sprinted around them to face her husband.  
  
"I'm here, Jed. What is it?"  
  
But as soon as she saw his face she knew. Under the flush he had gone pale green. Without another thought, she grabbed the nearest receptacle she could find - a vase, once owned by Louisa Adams, she seemed to recall, filled with a beautiful arrangement of hot house blooms. Dumping the flowers unceremoniously on the floor, she shoved the porcelain in front of him just in time. Ron and Charlie each held an arm as he threw up in the White House treasure.  
  
"Sorry," he groaned, swaying between them.  
  
"It's okay," Abbey soothed. "It's okay."  
  
Charlie had paled some now, himself, obviously realizing the President was quite sick. "Stomach virus?" he wondered, sounding rather hopeful.  
  
Abbey looked him in the eye. "No."  
  
But she saw he had already deduced as much, just wanted to believe it was something as simple as a stomach bug.  
  
"Can you make it to the Residence?" she asked Jed, who gave one curt nod and returned his attention to putting one foot in front of the other.  
  
And somehow he did, with only one other stop to make use of Louisa Adam's prized vase. As soon as they entered the bedroom, Abbey launched into action, ordering the men to deposit the patient on the bed, sending Charlie to retrieve a thermometer and bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, pushing Leo out to run interference, and directing Ron to find out where the hell Admiral Hackett was. She may not be a doctor, but she figured being the only one in the building who had ever performed a heart-lung transplant qualified her best at the moment.  
  
Plus, she wanted to give Jed the dignity of not being undressed by his staff. Instead, she pulled back the covers for him as he dragged himself up to lean against the pillows. Untying his shoes, she slipped them off, along with his socks. Then she worked at the fastening to his tuxedo trousers.  
  
"I was hoping you'd get me out of these pants, Sweet Knees," he said. "But I don't think I can - "  
  
"Hush," she scolded, stripping him to his boxers from the waist down and pulling the covers over him. "Sit up."  
  
With a grimace, he did, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt. Shivering, he fell back on the bed until she rummaged in the chest of drawers for a sweatshirt. With her help, he struggled into it just as Charlie returned.  
  
"Go away," Jed ordered. "My wife is busy seducing me."  
  
"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, but continued into the room, holding out a dark case for her.  
  
When she saw it, she paused, uncertain. Her medical bag. She had put it away, unable to look at it and know it was useless to her. But Charlie didn't flinch at her scowl. Instead, he set it on the nightstand and opened it.  
  
"I thought you might need more than just the thermometer," he explained simply.  
  
Fighting back unexpected tears, she nodded. "Okay." When she turned, Jed was watching her, and the pain on his face almost tore her apart. It was pain for her, for what she had done for him, not for his own condition.  
  
Desperate to find some manageable emotional ground, she asked, "Any word from Hackett?"  
  
"Agent Butterfield has located him and they're trying to get him here. It's really bad out there. I heard D.C. doesn't have enough plows to keep up with the accumulation." He handed her the stethoscope, which she took after only a slight hesitation.  
  
But before she used it, something occurred to her. "Charlie? Where's Deena?" Surely he had not left his sister alone in this weather.  
  
"She's with C.J. They left one of the parties a while back. She called to say they had made to C.J.'s apartment, so C.J.'s stuck with her for a while, I guess."  
  
Good. That meant C.J. was okay, as well. "I'm glad she's all right."  
  
It was second nature to slip the scope into her ears, to place the end over Jed's heart, his lungs. She breathed a little easier when everything sounded normal at least. But when the ear meter beeped, she frowned at the readout. 102.1. Way too high for her liking. "Hand me the Tylenol, please," she said, throwing her hand out as if she were receiving a scalpel.  
  
The bottle hit her palm in almost the same way and she popped the top to shake out three, handing them to her husband, who now lay almost asleep. He took them without comment, having learned years ago not to question, just to obey. It was much easier that way.  
  
"If you can rustle me up some Advil," she told Charlie, "we'll alternate every few hours."  
  
"Yes, m'am," he answered, already out the door.  
  
Well, she was giving the AMA more ammunition if they wanted it: practicing without a license. But really, anyone could give out Tylenol, right? Or take someone's temperature? Anyway, Hackett would be there soon.  
  
"Still nauseated?" she asked Jed, her voice making him open his eyes again.  
  
"Nah."  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"Well, not as much. Really." His earnest expression drew a laugh from her.  
  
"Okay, Jethro, I'll wash out the vase just in case."  
  
He winced at the reminder. "Uh, isn't that some - special vase. I don't know - Martha Washington's or something?"  
  
"Louisa Adams', I think. But it's okay."  
  
"I just hurled in Louisa Adams' vase?"  
  
Abbey smirked. "Maybe it's the same one John Quincy used when he hurled."  
  
Eyes closed again, Jed smiled. "Maybe. Seems to work well in that function, anyway."  
  
She watched him for a while, studied the features that had changed, yet stayed the same for 35 years of marriage. He had been a handsome thing when she first saw him. Of course, he was still handsome, but back then there was a wild quality to him, even as a prospective priest. Thirty-five years. Where on earth had it gone? With the immortality of youth, they had envisioned themselves far into the future, had laughingly pictured their ancient selves content with their lives, having done everything they wanted, having accomplished all they needed to accomplish.  
  
Well, she wasn't finished, yet. And he had better not be. She still loved that wild young man who had forsaken the priesthood, but not the Church, for her. And often in their rare private moments together, he still appeared, still awakened in her the intense desires of youth, still drew her back to a time when it was just the two of them, and they survived on a little money, a little food, and a lot of sex. Things change, she mused. They had more than a little money, now. And way too much food. But the sex had not changed. If anything, it was gotten even better. It was so much a part of their relationship that she could not envision a time that it would, no matter how old they grew.  
  
But Jed did. It was what he feared most and she knew it weighed heavily on him tonight. Especially since he had planned to -  
  
Damn it! Why hadn't she given in earlier? Why hadn't she followed her body's urges and let him coax her into bed before the parties began? What would it have mattered if they were a little late? But she hadn't. And now -  
  
No! She refused to consider that this was anything but a temporary attack. He would recover. She would make sure he did. Hackett would be there any minute, and by tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Jed would be back to normal. She believed it. She had to believe it.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Ron Butterfield's voice interrupted her self- determination.  
  
"Yes?" She turned, taking a deep breath.  
  
The tall frame of Admiral Hackett stood with him, thank God. Now they could get things going.  
  
"I've taken his pulse," she began, plunging in without even a polite hello. They could be courteous later. "Normal. Lungs sound fine. It's the fever that worries me most, an infection somewhere - " The fact that neither man had moved drew her to a stop in mid-sentence. Something was wrong. "What is it?"  
  
"Doctor Bartlet," Hackett greeted, and she felt her heart plunge. His voice was like gravel.  
  
Stepping closer, she took a good look. Oh hell. He was only a few steps out the grave, himself.  
  
"I came as soon as I could," he continued, the strain evident in his tone. "It really is a blizzard out there." He paused to cough roughly and Abbey gritted her teeth. "I'm afraid, though, I won't be of much help."  
  
She waited for the bombshell that must be coming.  
  
"I'm relatively certain I have the flu."  
  
Great. Not only was she practicing without a license; now she had two patients. 


	3. Chapter Three Ron Butterfield

POV: Ron Butterfield Spoilers: "Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc," "In Excelsis Deo," "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not ours; they belong to AS. But we certainly enjoy playing with them.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 3/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Ron Butterfield didn't like feeling helpless. That was undoubtedly the worst sensation a secret service agent could have - especially a secret service agent in charge of POTUS detail. Even at Rosslyn he had done something, taken action, gotten the President out of there. A little late, maybe, but not too late.  
  
But as he allowed his gaze to scan those in the Residence bedroom with him, that was exactly how he felt. His only consolation, such as it was, was that he wasn't alone. The expressions on their faces revealed pretty much the same emotion. The usual sharp determination in Abigail Bartlet's eyes had been replaced by a rather nauseated, incredulous haze. And he felt directly responsible for that awful look. She had counted on him, had put into his hands the job of finding the aid the President needed, and this was what he offered? His gaze cut sideways to the man next to him. Hackett, barely on his feet himself, could only bring more danger to the situation, more threat to the already threatened President. And this threat was something Ron wasn't trained to fight. This threat that carried no guns, no knives, no bombs. This threat was out of his hands and that made him feel helpless.  
  
And Ron Butterfield didn't like feeling helpless.  
  
"Welcome to the sick ward, Admiral."  
  
The weak voice that drifted from the Presidential bed hit the agent with two conflicting emotions. The first was a renewed anger. Anger at Mother Nature for throwing them all into this situation. But more strongly, anger at himself for not besting Mother Nature at her game. The second emotion was a strange sense of pride. Pride in the man who lay propped on those pillows, face flushed, hair tousled. Because, despite the obvious weakness, despite his need for assistance, Josiah Bartlet had not lost the mettle in his blue eyes. His confidence struck Ron from across the room. Confidence in himself, confidence in his God, confidence in all of them.  
  
It was a confidence the agent was ashamed to admit he had lost. Now, he scrambled inside himself to grab it back.  
  
And he chucked to himself - not out loud of course - at the consistency the President had shown. Humor. It was one of his many attributes. Sometimes a liability - he remembered C.J. mentioning something about a cowboy hat remark made during the first campaign - but usually an asset, a strength. And his use of it at that moment gave them the break they needed to push back their fears, their regrets, and to face the situation with all the resources they possessed. And those were not insignificant.  
  
Not surprisingly, the First Lady seemed to be propelled most quickly by his subtle prompt. Whatever momentary pause she had, it disappeared as she placed her hands on her hips and set her mouth. Naturally, Ron's eyes were drawn to the movement, but he tried not to look in that way. They were very nice hips. Oops. Was that a warning shot from the President's eyes? Well, maybe not, but he wouldn't take the chance.  
  
"Okay," Abbey said finally, moving toward Hackett. "Let's get you into bed." She gave Ron a quick glance that clearly asked for his help.  
  
But the Admiral waved them both away. "In a minute."  
  
Her brows drew together in warning. "What are you talking about, Doctor? You are sick yourself. You need to be in bed."  
  
Ron hesitated a foot or two away. This could be an interesting battle. Even the President seemed to focus on the brewing fight, probably glad he, for once, wasn't one of the combatants.  
  
Hackett could be stubborn, and Ron gave a silent cheer when the President's physician straightened a little and dared to confront the President's wife, who was - despite a few technicalities - his physician as well.  
  
"Doctor Bartlet," he began, and Ron noted that he always used the title, no matter what a review board had accepted. "You'll need my help." It was a simple statement, absent of any ego or arrogance.  
  
He watched a series of reactions flash across the First Lady's face: surprise, anger, realization, concession.  
  
When Ron first found out that Abigail Bartlet had voluntarily relinquished her medical license, he thought it unfortunate, but also brave. Take the offensive before you are forced to drop back into defense. And she had - just like her husband had. A remarkable woman. As a matter of fact, he found them both to be remarkable people, something that actually disconcerted him a little. They were his job, his duty - but nothing more. At least that's what it should have been.  
  
But it wasn't. They were more to him. Just how much more, he had not yet had the courage to contemplate fully.  
  
Hackett had not moved, not that he probably could have if he'd wanted to. The First Lady froze for a long moment, then nodded her confirmation of his observation. Ron knew what it meant. She was not a licensed physician - not anymore. She needed Hackett to make it legal, needed his authority to dispense medication, to practice the field that had been hers for thirty years. That must hurt. And Ron saw the pain in those beautiful eyes. Damn. Again, a much too personal observation. He dared a glance toward the President. Good thing one of his assets wasn't reading minds.  
  
"All right, Doctor," Abbey said, sighing. "Until we send you off to bed - and we WILL - sit." Her gesture indicated a chair well away from the President. "Ron, get him in it before he hits the floor."  
  
He obeyed. It was a logical command, after all. With his help, Hackett eased gratefully into the chair, wiping a shaking hand across his forehead.  
  
"Abbey, don't be bossy - " the President began, the humor still threading through his voice, but her quick glare stopped him in mid-sentence. No doubt who was in charge here, license or no license.  
  
Swinging her threatening gaze back to Hackett, she said, "Agent Butterfield. Please have Charlie prepare the Lincoln Bedroom for the Admiral."  
  
This time, Hackett chose not to voice any opposition. Ron nodded, and stepped into the hall to send one of his men to locate the President's aide, glad now that he could do something again. When he returned, he watched as Hackett and Abbey Bartlet conferred for a few minutes, their voices low. Normally, this would have frustrated the hell out of the President, knowing they were discussing him, but unable to hear what they said. But his eyes had closed again and he didn't seem to care. Not a good sign.  
  
Ron watched them for a few minutes, feeling comfortable, at least, that they - along with Mother Nature - had secured the building. Nothing getting in. But nothing getting out, either.  
  
Now the discussion grew a little louder, maybe because they had finished any disturbing conjectures, or maybe because they had just gotten so involved they forgot to be quiet. Either way, he didn't have to work too hard to hear the speculations from the two doctors.  
  
"Neck pain, too?" Hacket was asking. "Stiffness?"  
  
Abbey nodded. "I thought about it. Along with the fever. It's not out of the realm of possibility."  
  
"Wouldn't be our best scenario."  
  
"No," she agreed.  
  
What? Ron wondered, suddenly a bit more anxious.  
  
Hackett wiped at his forehead again. "The only way to confirm would be a spinal tap."  
  
"Or a blood test if it's viral."  
  
This wasn't sounding any better.  
  
"Any other symptoms?" the Admiral asked softly.  
  
"Paraparesis of the anterior femoral muscles."  
  
"He's had that before," he remembered.  
  
"Yes. And optic neuritis with partial unilateral nerve paresis."  
  
"Not new to him, either." Hackett had done his homework on his patient.  
  
Ron didn't recognized any of the terms, but knew enough to feel dread in his gut. None of this sounded good at all.  
  
"Fever?"  
  
The First Lady glanced back toward the bed where the President lay so still that she hesitated a minute before answering. Ron knew she was instinctively watching to make sure his chest still rose and fell. "I gave him Tylenol, but it hasn't been too effective. Still at 102.1. I don't like that. We'll start alternating with Adv - "  
  
Her voice broke suddenly and she looked away toward the window, fighting for control. Again, Ron rebelled at the helplessness that overcame him as he watched. She shouldn't be doing this. None of them should be in this situation. He glanced toward the bed, gritting his teeth in frustration.  
  
Rubbing at her eyes, she finally sighed and made an obvious effort to push back the pressing despair that her fatigue only encouraged. "Before you arrived I was about to do a general ear, nose, and throat exam."  
  
"Let's see what that shows," the Admiral decided, his voice fading to a whisper.  
  
Abbey frowned down at him, all business again. "And then you are going to bed - no arguments."  
  
He could only nod, his limited energies spent.  
  
Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out an instrument - an octoscope, he heard her say to Hackett - and approached the President, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He roused, opening his eyes.  
  
"Hey," he whispered, and the absence of strength in that voice plucked another twinge of worry in the agent.  
  
"Hey," his wife returned, her tone warm, reassuring. It was almost too intimate for anyone else to hear, but Ron wasn't going anywhere. "I'm just going to check a few things, okay?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
As she conducted the exam, she didn't comment, at least not with any words. Occasionally, she made a small noise in her throat, but no one asked what that meant. Maybe they just didn't want to hear.  
  
"What were you guys talkin' about over there?" Bartlet finally asked, tiring of the silence.  
  
Abbey didn't stop. "Oh stuff. You know, how Navy's doing in hoops this year. Celine Dion's latest CD."  
  
The noise he made might have been a laugh if he'd had enough energy, but his voice had grown serious when he spoke again. "Abigail? Tell me."  
  
Now she did pause, pulled back to look him in the eye. They had been together too long for any misdirection to work between them. Ron knew he was about to hear the truth.  
  
"We're pretty sure there's an infection of some kind, and that's aggravated the MS symptoms."  
  
"I heard something about a spinal tap." So he wasn't asleep after all.  
  
"Yeah, well." Now she shook her head. "Why is it you don't hear me when I'm talking right to you, but you can hear someone throw a penny in the Reflecting Pool?"  
  
He didn't shift his gaze or his expression.  
  
"All right. Neck pain and stiffness, high fever, headache, vomiting. These could be signs of meningococcal disease."  
  
"Meningitis," the President clarified.  
  
Abbey nodded.  
  
Meningitis? Did he say meningitis? Oh hell. Oh hell. Immediately, Ron scanned his mind for who had been around the President recently, both to see who might have given it to him and to see who might contract it from him. And here they were suddenly under the very real possibility of quarantine in the White House.  
  
"Doctor Bartlet?" he asked, needing to know, for several reasons.  
  
She turned halfway toward him.  
  
"Isn't meningitis contagious?"  
  
Seeing the concern on his face, and obviously understanding the reason for his question, she completed her turn, tucking an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Viruses that cause viral meningitis can be spread person- to-person or by insects."  
  
Not many insects out in a blizzard, Ron figured.  
  
"But almost all cases occur as single, isolated events. We would just watch anyone who has had close contact with him in the past few days."  
  
He let his shoulders fall slightly. That sounded better than he thought.  
  
"The other type, more dangerous, is bacterial meningitis. It is caused, obviously, by a bacteria. Haemophilus influenzae type b used to be a leading cause, but the past ten years or so we've been giving the vaccine for it." Her voice strengthened now, and she turned to pat her husband's hand. "I don't think that's what we're looking at here, but the only way to tell for certain is through a spinal tap."  
  
He saw the President grimace.  
  
"But, I'm still not finished with the exam." She turned back and picked up the octoscope, easing it into his left ear. After only a brief glance, she tilted his head and moved the instrument to the right ear. It had barely entered when the President hissed.  
  
"Ow. That hurt." His expression fell somewhere between an injured pout and an irritated scowl. Both wore well.  
  
Now Abbey pulled back looking almost relieved. "It should," she noted, replacing the offending instrument in her bag. "You've got an angry case of Otitis Media."  
  
That sounded bad, too, but the First Lady's expression reassured him. The President smirked. "You know you turn me on when you give me that doctor talk."  
  
Ron stifled a cough.  
  
Abbey smiled, and it was a welcome sight that evening. "An ear infection, Jethro. How's your hearing?"  
  
"What?"  
  
She shook her head. "Funny." Now she turned to Hackett, who had sunk deeper into the chair. "How are you doing, Doctor?"  
  
"Managing," he replied, not very convincingly. "Otitis media?"  
  
"Clear case. Assuming that's the sole contributor, it would account for all the primary symptoms. Ear and neck pain, headache, fever, vomiting."  
  
"I agree. We'll treat it and watch to see how the antibiotics perform. I sincerely doubt bacterial meningitis. Viral, possibly, but there's not much we can do about that, anyway."  
  
"Amoxicillin?" Abbey proposed. "Azithromycin? Ceftriaxone?"  
  
"There you go with that sexy talk again," the President said. Ron had determined, through the course of his relationship with the Bartlets, that just about anything Abigail Bartlet said, the President found sexy. And with good reason.  
  
She ignored her husband, having had almost thirty-five years to deal with it.  
  
Hackett shrugged. "Whatever is in stock downstairs. Probably erythomycin and cefaclor, too." His eyes had clouded a little. "Is he allergic to anything?" He seemed rather irritated with that he couldn't remember.  
  
"Eggnog." The President supplied that answer himself.  
  
"Well," Hackett decided, "I think we're safe there. Ron, make sure no eggnog is allowed near the President."  
  
"Will do," the agent assured him, stone faced, but almost grinning inside. Things were looking much better now.  
  
And just like that, they swung into action. Charlie arrived to help walk Admiral Hackett to the Lincoln Bedroom after the doctor had ordered a round of amoxicillin for the President. Leo returned with news that the storm was continuing and it looked as if the city would be practically shut down by daybreak. They had been fortunate to get through when they did. Additional snowplows were being requested and sent from New York and Pennsylvania to try to dig the capital city out from under the snow.  
  
After the First Lady had administered the medicine and tucked the President under the covers, she left to tend to Hackett. Leo took up the vigil by his friend, sitting in the chair, watching Jed Bartlet sleep. Despite the fact that the Chief of Staff didn't speak or even move really, Ron read in every line on his body the devotion he had for the other man.  
  
But then Ron Butterfield watched people. He noticed things. It was part of his job. Noticing things could mean the difference between stepping in front to shield a protected president, or stepping behind to catch a fallen president. And that was all the difference in the world.  
  
So he watched. And since there seemed to be no imminent danger from an outside source at least, he focused his attention on the man he was most accustomed to watching. Josiah Bartlet had not been at all what Ron Butterfield had expected four years ago. A prep-schooled intellectual from New England, a liberal, a man who had never seen military action, who may very well never have fired a gun even. What could this man bring to the nation? To the world? What narrow, idealistic visions would they be subject to until they grew tired of his pipedream and elected a realist? But Ron never voiced his thoughts. That was not his job. Egghead or jock, liberal or conservative, he would protect the man the people, for whatever motive, had elected.  
  
Then he met Jed Bartlet.  
  
And was reminded not to make judgments prematurely. Yes, he was an intellectual, possibly the smartest man Ron had ever met, but his keen mind was tempered with a quick wit and warmed by a genuine affection for people and deep desire to do the right thing. True, he was a liberal. A liberal who sought to use his open views and philosophy to provide for those less fortunate, less capable. No, he had never served in the military - Ron wasn't sure about the gun - but he wasn't a coward. His frustrating refusal to enter and leave without a tent, his constant insistence on working the rope lines, his strict denial to take the easy way out - physically or politically - showed that. Even after Rosslyn, he didn't back down, didn't cower behind protected doors - a fact that served as a constant aggravation for his protector.  
  
Rosslyn. A turning point in Ron's relationship with Jed Bartlet. The man didn't even realize he was shot, for Pete's sake - was so caught up in how his daughter was, and then in Ron's own injury, that he paid no attention to himself. He could still hear the frantic, angry rant. Could still remember the white rush of adrenalin, the pounding of his blood in his chest, through his hand. Could still see the President, hair scattered, face flushed, chest heaving. He had been furious.  
  
"My daughter is throwing up in the car behind us, you're losing blood by the liter, not to mention God knows how many broken bones you've got in your hand, but let's make sure I'm tucked in bed - "  
  
Ron had been afraid for a moment he would have to fight him. Then the heart-stopping sight of red on the President's lips changed the direction of the argument. The combination of seeing the horror on his agent's face and the cumulative shock from the wound and blood loss finally caught up with him. He sat, stunned, as Ron ran his hands frantically, but thoroughly, through his thick hair, down his back, across his chest, finally landing, with a sickening thunk, on the sodden patch of shirt. Before he had even pulled his hand away, Ron had known it would be coated in scarlet stickiness.  
  
He closed his eyes briefly against that terrible memory, one that had haunted him since that night. One that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself that it was okay. The President had recovered. Josh had recovered. They had caught or killed the gunmen.  
  
And now this latest crisis had turned out to be a simple ear infection. He let himself relax, not much, but enough that anyone who knew him well would notice.  
  
And he admitted to himself that Jed Bartlet was not at all what he had expected.  
  
"Zoey?" The worry in the sudden thought that had drawn the President from his rest sounded clearly in his voice.  
  
Leo shifted, leaning over the bed slightly. "Zoey's not here."  
  
"I know she's not, here, Leo," he said, exasperation giving only a hint of power to the pale tone. "I'm not that far gone."  
  
Leo cleared his throat. "I didn't mean that - "  
  
"Where is she, though? She and Liz went off to one of the balls, I don't know which." Now the bed creaked under the President's attempt to rise. "Ron?"  
  
"Mister President - " Leo tried, but he pushed himself up anyway and braced on his hands, arms visibly shaking, until the agent moved into view.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Where are Zoey and Liz - and Annie? Did they get back here?" His whole body trembled from the effort, but he refused to give in to it until he had an answer.  
  
"They are all at Ms. Cregg's apartment, Mister President. It was the closest and easier to get to. We have agents in place now. Eleanor made it back to a friend's house. Her agent is with her, too." He wanted the President to know everyone was safe. No need adding that to his problems. Still, he kept to himself the knowledge that they would attempt to bring the First Daughters to the White House as soon as plows could make the time. If it wasn't soon, he didn't want the President worrying about that.  
  
The bed groaned again as he allowed his body to drop back onto it. "Yeah. I knew about Ellie." He paused to catch his breath. "Thanks. Check on - the rest of the staff for me, would you, please?"  
  
"Yes, sir." This was something he could do for the President, wished he had done before, but they were all so caught up in making sure Jed Bartlet was secure, that they had not really thought about the staff members who didn't merit, or maybe just didn't need, secret service protection.  
  
Leaving his boss in Leo McGarry's care, he stepped into the hall, and contacted the First Family's agents again, just to make sure the Bartlet daughters and granddaughter were still secure. Then he began the process of sending feelers out for the rest, which really only included Josh, Donna, Margaret, and Toby, and he figured Toby was in the capable hands of Congresswoman Wyatt at the moment.  
  
He paused at the huge end window outside the bedroom and watched the swirling white blanket the city. This could have been a nightmare for them. The President, seriously ill, needing medical facilities, and a rare blizzard preventing them access to aid. Of course, there were impressive resources right there in the White House, but all of them would agree that Bethesda or GW was preferable. So he was more than a little relieved to know that he would not be called upon to attempt transport for the President to a hospital. It seemed a little bed rest and some penicillin would do the trick. And with the city shut down, no one might even notice the President's isolation for a day or two. Yes, this was turning out much better than he would have guessed a few hours ago.  
  
Now he just needed to wait for confirmation of everyone's safety and settle in for the night. When he eased back into the Residence bedroom, he saw that Leo still sat in the same position. Ever vigilant, ever loyal. And he had no doubts that Jed Bartlet had done the same for his friend on other occasions. As a matter of fact, Leo had made vague mention once of a time when Jed had stayed up all night, nursing him through a particularly bad experience. Ron didn't ask what the experience was. After Leo's public revelation of alcohol and drug addiction, it seemed pretty clear.  
  
A soft moan drew his attention totally into the present and he saw that Leo had leaned forward over the bed.  
  
"Mister President?" he said, voice soft.  
  
Another moan. Ron stepped to his left to get a better view, aware of giving the President as much privacy as he could under the circumstances, but also needing to see what was happening.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
This time, Ron saw the President's eyes open and blink a couple of times. Awake, good. He allowed himself a little sigh of relief.  
  
"Leo?" Bartlet's head turned toward his friend.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
The tone in the President's voice then was one Ron couldn't place at first. He couldn't place it because he heard it so rarely from that man, but when he did, a thick shot of adrenalin burst through him. It was fear. The relief abruptly disappeared.  
  
"Leo, get - get Abbey." Yes, definitely fear.  
  
Now the Chief of Staff's voice held them same quality. "What is it?"  
  
"I can't - I can't -" That calm, self-assured expression, the determined lines, had been swept clean with something foreign to Jed Bartlet. Ron was almost certain he saw panic on the strong features.  
  
"Jed?" Leo asked again, obviously fighting his own loss of control.  
  
"Leo," he said, his voice catching before he could go on. "I can't - I can't - see."  
  
Dear Lord.  
  
For a stunned moment, neither Ron nor Leo could move, could respond. Did he say he couldn't see? He couldn't SEE? Then the Chief of Staff drew himself up and turned, voice barely keeping hysteria at bay.  
  
"Get Abbey," he said tightly.  
  
Move, Ron told himself, told his legs. Move. It took two silent commands to relate the order to his body, but when the synapses connected, he moved.  
  
On a dead run toward the Lincoln Bedroom, he tried not to think about what that meant, tried not to imagine the implications of the President's blunt declaration. He would take a bullet for the President - HAD taken one. He had done his job; he had protected the President from all dangers, foreign and domestic. He knew, without doubt, that he would die to protect Jed Bartlet.  
  
But how could he protect him from his own body? 


	4. Chapter Four CJ Cregg

POV: C.J. Spoilers: "The Portland Trip;" "U.S. Poet Laureate;" "The Long Goodbye" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: We didn't create these characters, only the predicaments they are in.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 4/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
C.J. Cregg didn't really like snow. Growing up in Ohio, she'd seen her share, but after the delicate flakes massed into mountains of hard packed deterrents to mobility, she lost interest. Her father never failed to chide her for her lack of enthusiasm, for her refusal to let her imagination be delighted by the magic of the pure, clean world after a good snowfall. After she moved to California, there were occasional washes of nostalgia when she wished for just a flake or two to mar the irritatingly temperate climate, but not often.  
  
Now, however, as she sat cross-legged, hot chocolate cradled in her hands, satisfied fatigue giving her that peculiar buzz, she found a certain contentment with the quietly building sheet of white that layered its way across D.C. Snow was not a novelty here, but it was not so ubiquitous that the inhabitants ignored it, either. This was a formidable storm for Virginia, and C.J. figured it would take a good two days or so to thaw the city back into normal activity.  
  
But she found that she didn't really mind. It was almost as if God had given them a vacation - a reward for their stress-filled, hectic year leading up to the election. It occurred perfectly - the grand spectacle of the inauguration followed by a day or two of well-deserved collapse. She wouldn't feel guilty at all accepting the bit of serendipity.  
  
Besides, her unexpected companions promised to be entertaining houseguests. She had not planned on company tonight - had fully intended to get a little drunker, dance a few more times, and sleep until Toby or Josh called with the next crisis - hopefully a week later.  
  
Mother Nature, however, had intervened, sending them scampering for a haven, lest they be forced to spend the entire night on the plush couches of Monarch Hotel. Of course, if you had to sleep in a hotel lobby, the Monarch offered the most opulent surroundings, but she was glad they had managed to make it back to her apartment before the blizzard completely socked in everything.  
  
Sipping the warm liquid and feeling it spread heat as it slid down her throat, she realized three sets of eyes watched her - eyes that were different, yet held the same intensity, the same keen interest, the same twinkle that she saw daily in the eyes of the leader of the free world.  
  
"I'm sorry?" she apologized, gathering from their expectant gazes that she had ignored a question from one of them.  
  
It was Liz who responded, feet tucked under her, blond hair allowed to fall free of its earlier elegant restraints. She favored her father, C.J. thought - his tan skin, his blonde-brown hair. And she, more than the other two, had his striking blue eyes.  
  
"I said, 'Do you know if Mom and Dad made it back to the residence okay?'"  
  
Zoey grinned, pushing back a lock of her own red hair. "Dad seemed pretty eager to get back earlier in the evening."  
  
Her oldest sister's hands popped up to cover her daughter's ears, even though the young lady was 15 now, and certainly aware of the facts of life. Still, C.J. knew, it was hard to think of your parents - and especially grandparents - in that way.  
  
"Zoey!"  
  
But the youngest Bartlet daughter did not seem the least bit chagrined. In fact, it encouraged her. "Liz, you know how they are. I hope they waited until they got there at least."  
  
"I know," her sister agreed, "but Annie doesn't need to."  
  
Jed Bartlet's granddaughter pushed away her mother's failed attempt to shield her. The impish smirk that crossed her lips drew a spark of recognition from C.J. with its familiarity. "Mom, really. I'm not a child anymore."  
  
She pouted with a teenager's expertise. "I read things. Just this morning there was this article in one of the women's magazines. Redbook or Good Housekeeping or something."  
  
"Why were you reading that?" Zoey wondered.  
  
"I was waiting to get my hair done for the inauguration. It was that or Bowling Digest. Anyway, this article said that both men and women remain sexually active their entire lives."  
  
"Annie!" Liz looked horrified, but her daughter continued.  
  
"In fact, it said that couples in their fifties and sixties reported that sex was even better than ev - "  
  
"Anne Weston!"  
  
The teenager shrugged. "It did."  
  
C.J. hid a smile. Annie had always been precocious - a trait inherited from her grandfather. But she sensed Liz's daughter might be a little less naïve than the teenage Jed Bartlet had been.  
  
In an effort to rescue the girl, C.J. said, "Josh told me they left before we did and had a plow ready to get them back. I hope they told the President about you guys and where you ended up. He'll be worried if they didn't."  
  
Everyone nodded. If Jed Bartlet thought his family was in even the least bit of danger he would not stop until he secured their safety, even if it meant trudging through the snow banks himself, dragging Ron Butterfield behind him.  
  
The press secretary grinned at that image, knowing that, while it probably wouldn't happen literally, it could very well be a figurative possibility.  
  
"Tonight was pretty amazing," Zoey said, her voice holding a rare tone of awe.  
  
C.J. silently agreed, and thought back over the day. The cheering crowds, waving banners and flags; the stirring address, Toby's and Will's prose dancing with Jed Bartlet's gifted delivery; the insistence of the President on walking the traditional parade route from the Capitol to the White House; the glittering, elegant parties stocked with dignitaries, movie stars, and sometimes just plain citizens. It was an evening of magic and she wasn't quite ready to give it up yet.  
  
The agents that accompanied Liz, Zoey, and Annie had made themselves comfortable, as well, apparently considering a massive snowstorm to be an adequate deterrent to anyone who might have evil intentions. No, they wouldn't have any visitors tonight. Good thing she had fresh sheets on the guest bed and enough blankets to make several pallets. A spend-the-night party with the daughters and granddaughter of the President of the United States - and their bodyguards. Should be interesting. Maybe they would tell some tales about growing up with Jed Bartlet. As much as C.J. had been around him, she realized she knew very little about his personal life before the White House. What would it have been like to have Jed Bartlet as a father?  
  
She had long ago realized that this man was very special to her, almost like her father, as a matter of fact, and she hoped to talk the Bartlet girls into sharing a little about him when he was younger. She had told him once that he was "old school" - or at least that some of his strategies were. But in her mind there was nothing "old" about Josiah Bartlet. It was his energy, his humor, his enthusiasm that had brought them all together in the first place. And she wanted to know if he was always like that. If that charisma, that aura of power and achievement had always surrounded him. Did his children see it? Did their intimate knowledge of his shortcomings overshadow their ability to see just what an amazing person he was?  
  
"I think we're stuck here for a while," Liz noted, glancing past C.J. and through the window. This is even a good snow for New Hampshire. Maybe Dad'll wear a coat, at least."  
  
"I've noticed that about him," C.J. said. "I have rarely seen him in anything heavier than a windbreaker." She had even watched him as he stood outside the Oval Office, shirtsleeves rolled up, and the snow swirling around him. Amazing.  
  
Zoey smirked. "He likes to say he's a tough New Englander. Chides those of us who have enough sense to keep from freezing to death." She propped her feet on the low table between the couch the Bartlet girls were on and the chair C.J. occupied. "It's just Dad. We ignore him."  
  
Ignore him. Right. Ignore the President of the United States. Well, his daughters had that prerogative. His press secretary didn't.  
  
"Tell me about him." It was out before she could stop it. Not that it wasn't what she wanted to say, but she had hoped to be a little subtler, to ease them into revealing aspects of their lives with Josiah Bartlet. Still, no one balked at the request. In fact, Liz smiled a little and glanced toward Zoey in some shared memory or emotion.  
  
C.J. back peddled a bit. "It's just that I know him now and I know Abbey, but I really don't know much about them before the campaign - except, of course, what we put out in press releases. Economics professor, Ph.D. from the London School of Economics. Nobel Prize winner. U.S. Congressman. Governor of New Hampshire. President. I didn't even know he had planned to become a priest until he told me once on Air Force One."  
  
Annie glanced up, startled. "He did? He was going to be a priest?"  
  
Oops. Maybe that wasn't for public - or apparently familial - knowledge.  
  
But Liz just shrugged and smiled. "Mom told me that's why he went to Notre Dame."  
  
"Not that I'm complaining," Annie assured them, twirling a strand of curly hair around a finger. "After all, I wouldn't be here if he had, but what happened?"  
  
Now C.J. grinned. "He told me it was because he met your grandmother."  
  
"Cool," Annie decided.  
  
Liz's nod supported her. "That's what happened. He met Mom, and the Church lost a future cardinal."  
  
An interesting observation. And C.J. had no doubt that Jed Bartlet would have become a cardinal, too. Maybe even the first American pope. She was selfishly grateful God had intervened to use him in a different capacity.  
  
"Have they always been so - close?" She wanted to ask it with more specificity, but Annie was just fifteen.  
  
"Yeah. Always." Liz took the question as first-born. "I can remember going to a friend's house for the weekend and wondering what on earth was wrong with her parents. We'd watch television and her mom would sit on the couch and her dad in the chair. They'd talk occasionally, but mostly they just did their own thing. It was completely different than my own folks."  
  
No doubt. She couldn't picture Jed and Abbey Bartlet in the same room without being right next to each other. "How?"  
  
"They were always touching - still are, I guess. Holding hands, resting against each other on the couch, sitting thigh to thigh on the porch swing. It was as if they couldn't be close without physically connecting somehow. I remember - " She broke off and glanced over suddenly at Annie. "It's way past your bedtime, Sweetheart."  
  
The teenager let out an indignant sigh. "Yeah, I know. You're going to talk about sex and you don't want me in here."  
  
C.J. tried not to cough too loudly.  
  
She rose, all legs and arms. "Fine. I can take a hint. But it's not like I don't know about this stuff, you know." With a superficial pout, she trounced off to the guest room where she and her mother would sleep.  
  
The press secretary let out the laugh she had been holding. "You've got your hands full, Liz," she observed.  
  
A rueful sigh was her response. Then the President's oldest daughter admitted, "Dad says it's payback for all the hell I gave Mom and him. But it was really Zoey who - "  
  
"Hey! Don't bring me in on this. Ellie's the one - "  
  
But they had gotten C.J.'s attention and she wanted to hear more. "You were saying?"  
  
Settling back on the couch, Liz continued. "Well, there was this one time when all three of us girls went to visit Grandma and Grandpa Barrington for a week."  
  
"I don't remember that," Zoey said, frowning.  
  
"Well, you were a baby. Or maybe you weren't even born, yet. It doesn't really matter."  
  
"It matters to me. At least the being born part."  
  
Liz glared as only a big sister can. "Anyway," she said, stressing the word to emphasize that Zoey's remarks were irrelevant, "we must have come back early or something, because no one answered the door when we knocked. Of course, Grandma and Grandpa had a key and we let ourselves in."  
  
Oh boy. She could see where this was going. Already, the grin had formed on her lips.  
  
"I was eleven, probably, and Ellie must have been five or six." She turned to Zoey again. "You know, I think you're right. You weren't born yet."  
  
"See?"  
  
"So I go skipping toward the kitchen for some Oreos - Dad always kept some stashed in the top right cabinet behind the cereal - and notice that the door is closed. Before I can plow through it, I hear these strange noises coming from the other side."  
  
"Noises?" C.J. asked, but she already knew. This was really getting good.  
  
Liz grinned. "Yeah. Groans and moans and labored breathing. I thought maybe Dad had hurt himself or something and Mom was helping. So, naturally, I wanted to help, too."  
  
C.J. clamped her hand over her mouth in horrified amusement. "Oh my God!"  
  
"Oh yeah. She was helping, all right. I got just a quick glimpse before Grandpa jerked me back into the living room, but it was enough for an eleven-year-old whose mind was just grasping the birds and bees." Even then, twenty-two years later, a blush still colored her cheeks at the memory.  
  
"What happened then?" This was too juicy to leave hanging - so to speak.  
  
"Well, I think they got off the table pretty quickly - "  
  
"They were on the TABLE?" What a mental picture. Abbey on their kitchen table with the President - Geez, how was she ever going to look at them again without that vision?  
  
"Yeah. Didn't I mention that part?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, they were. After a few minutes of rather loud scrambling, they opened the door and greeted their returning children. I still remember how red Mom's face was when she said hey to her parents. I think Dad was almost afraid Grandpa would order him from his own house, even though they'd been married for thirteen years. But then he hugged me and picked up Ellie and swung her around and we sort of forgot about it. I justified in my mind that they had been wrestling or tickling each other. Anything but what they were really doing. I certainly couldn't believe my parents actually had sex, even though Ellie and I were proof that they did."  
  
"God, how embarrassing," Zoey laughed. "I'm glad I didn't catch them. That must have been about a year before I was born."  
  
Liz's eyes twinkled like her father's. "You know, I think it was less than that. As a matter of fact - "  
  
"Oh my God!" Zoey realized what Liz was suggesting at the same time C.J. did. "Oh my God. Conceived on the kitchen table."  
  
Both women laughed at the distress on her face. For herself, C.J. had another reason to be thankful for being snowed in. It would give her another day or two before she had to face Jed Bartlet with the intimate knowledge that he and Abbey had created their third child on their own breakfast table. Maybe her flush wouldn't be as furious by then, but she doubted it. It had been hard enough asking if he wore special underwear to try to conceive a son.  
  
But Liz's delicious tale only made her want to hear more. As she opened her mouth to prompt another story, her cell phone beeped in irritating interruption. Damn it. It was two in the morning, for Pete's sake. Who the hell -  
  
With a less than patient grunt she flipped it open, prepared to give a good ear stinging to Josh or Toby, whichever one was foolish enough to ruin her evening with the President's girls. Her money was on Josh.  
  
"Yeah?" she snapped.  
  
"C.J.?"  
  
Oh hell. She tried to take the edge from her words when she recognized the voice. "Hey, Leo. What's up?" Not bad. Maybe he hadn't noticed the sharp tone.  
  
He hadn't. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge her question. "Are the President's daughters there with you?"  
  
"Yeah." Surely they had told the President where his family was. He was just checking. "Well, Liz and Zoey are. And Annie. Ellie's at - "  
  
"Yeah. Listen, I'm going to tell you some things, but I want you to act like everything's fine."  
  
What? Does that mean everything's not fine? "What are you talking - "  
  
"This is important, C.J."  
  
The tension in his tone got her attention. "Sure. Okay."  
  
"The President has - an ear infection."  
  
"Is he okay?" Damn. The women before her looked up suddenly, their expressions expectant. She tried to wave it off casually. An ear infection. Okay. Even with the MS, that can be treated, right? He had seemed perfectly fine that afternoon.  
  
"Well, there are some - complications."  
  
Damn. She had known that was coming. Leo wouldn't have called otherwise. She fought to keep the fear from her face, knowing that would be a sure- fire give away to the already alert eyes on her. Complications. What kind of complications?  
  
"Okay," she answered calmly. Four years of dealing with the press had given her the ability to smooth out her tone, to deflect suspicion, to - well - to lie, she supposed. "Tell me about those."  
  
Leo sighed and she almost cringed as she heard the worry roughen his voice. "He's - he's running a fever. It's pretty high. And he's - "  
  
Whatever Leo was having trouble saying couldn't be good. She tried not to scream at him as she waited, tried not to notice the Bartlet girls inching closer to her.  
  
"He's having trouble seeing, C.J."  
  
A lump pushed at her throat and she fought back the bubbling emotions. What does that mean, having trouble seeing? Can he see? Can he not see? Dear Lord. Please don't let that happen, she prayed silently. Her hand trembled as it held the phone and she turned away so they couldn't tell.  
  
"Could you - clarify that, Leo?" Before I reach through the phone and jerk it out of you?  
  
"I don't know, yet. Abbey's with him now - and Hackett." He laughed.  
  
He laughed? What the hell was he laughing about?  
  
"Hackett has the flu," he answered, as if he had heard her bemused question. "Murphy's Law, huh?"  
  
That was unlike Leo, showing anything less than total confidence in the situation. It worried her more than his blatant revelation.  
  
"Leo, what do you need me to do?" She didn't figure they could get to the White House for a conference. Of course, in this weather there wouldn't be any reporters to listen. Still, she felt a strong urge to be there, to help in whatever way she could. Run interference, if necessary. Or maybe just be there for someone to talk to. How could this be happening? How could he be fine and then a few hours later be dangerously ill?  
  
Aware of the attention still on her from Liz and Zoey, she carefully removed any urgency from her voice, but hoped that Leo heard it anyway. "What can I do?"  
  
He continued. "We are trying to get you out, but it will probably be morning before that happens. Just stay available. Have your phone ready. If we need you to make a statement we can do an audio hookup."  
  
"But how would they find out?" she asked. After all, it was two in the morning after a day in which the President had been highly visible. No one would expect anything to happen to him. And tomorrow, the weather would limit expectations of seeing him, as well. Maybe they could get by with this. Well, until the world discovered he couldn't - God, she couldn't even think it.  
  
"I don't know. They seem to sniff things out, usually at the worst times." That was true. He hesitated; she heard it.  
  
"Leo, what else?"  
  
A sigh. She was right. "Maybe nothing."  
  
Fat chance with their luck. "What?"  
  
"Some activity along the Qumar border. Can't tell yet. It might be troop movements. Might not be. We're checking."  
  
Perfect. Of course they'd choose this night. "I'll be there as soon as I can."  
  
"No. Just stay there and don't let the girls know what's going on. Abbey will call them when she's ready. As soon as I know anything else, I'll call you." He paused, and in the hesitation she heard him force a measure of assurance back into his voice. "C.J., I know you can handle this. I'll call you later." The phone clicked, leaving her listening to nothing for a moment before she realized he was gone.  
  
Great. Thanks. I'll just visit casually with Josiah Bartlet's daughters without telling them that their father might be going blind at this very moment and that Qumar has decided to start the war now. The impact of those facts hit her with such force that she dropped the phone from shaking fingers.  
  
"C.J.?" Liz watched her carefully.  
  
"It's nothing." She retrieved the phone and tucked it carefully in her pocket, ready for the next call. One she hoped carried much better news. "Really."  
  
"That was Leo." Zoey didn't ask for more, but her statement was a clear prompt.  
  
"Yeah. He, uh, he's worried about the weather, about being able to do a conference if I can't get back to the West Wing tomorrow." How did that sound? Good?  
  
"Seems like something has happened."  
  
Well, apparently it didn't sound good enough.  
  
"Nah."  
  
"You asked if 'he' was okay. Who were you talking about?" These were Bartlets, that was for sure.  
  
"Josh." Please forgive me when you find out about all this. "He, uh, slipped on the ice outside his apartment. He's okay, though."  
  
They didn't look convinced.  
  
"Leave it to Josh." Don't play it too well, she told herself. You'll just have more to apologize for later.  
  
All right. The President was sick, very sick, apparently. He couldn't - even now she had trouble imagining - he couldn't see. And he was running a fever. And a pesky Mid-East country was about to add to his distress by poking at the smoldering fires between them.  
  
"I know you can handle this," Leo had indicated. Easy for him to say.  
  
But she gathered her best game face, the one she used for the trickiest of conferences when she knew someone had a story, but she couldn't acknowledge it. Praying it would be enough, she rummaged through the cabinet by her chair and pulled out a dog-eared deck of Bicycle cards.  
  
"Gin Rummy, anyone?"  
  
No one answered, just continued to stare at her with those demanding eyes.  
  
God, it was going to be a long night. 


	5. Chapter Five Jed

POV: Jed Spoilers: ITSOTG, HSFTTT (just a bit) Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters belong to AS, not to us. (Darn.)  
They Can't Take That Away 5/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Josiah Bartlet had been truly scared only a few times in his life, and those usually involved his fear being focused on someone he loved. Not even when he discovered he had MS. Maybe he was too stunned to realize the implications of that diagnosis at the time. Not even at Rosslyn, at least not for himself. A bullet wound in the side - he could deal with that, he could overcome that.  
  
But as he tried to shake off the haze of sleep, and a fever-induced sleep at that, he felt the first twinge of that unwelcome emotion. The room with which he had become so familiar in the past four years came to him as a dark, blotchy cave, the figures in it only shadows of movement. He blinked again. Surely he would open his eyes and see them as they should be. But when he tried, it was the same. He felt the panic welling up inside him, gathered his strength to push it back down. He couldn't panic. He was the President - but more than that he was Josiah Bartlet.  
  
He would not panic.  
  
"Leo?" Maybe the lights were out. But he knew better because he could see lights and darks. The best description he could give his fuzzy brain was that of looking through a translucent shower door when only the small night- light below the sink was on.  
  
"Leo?" He tried hard to keep the fear from his voice, but knew he had not succeeded when he heard the same fear echoed in his friend's tone.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Leo, get - get Abbey." He still wasn't sure what was happening, but he knew he needed his wife.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I can't - I can't - " Could he even say it? Somehow voicing what he saw, or didn't see, might make it real. But he needed her.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"Leo, I can't - I can't - see." There it was. Almost as loudly as he heard the intake of the collective breath of his observers, he felt it.  
  
His body worked against him, a heavy fatigue pushing down on him, pressing him back into the mattress. He fought past it, angry now at himself for letting this happen, knowing very well it was illogical, that he had no control over it. But he had never been one to let that stop him.  
  
He heard Leo order Ron to get Abbey and he dreaded seeing - or hearing - her reaction when she realized what was happening to him. He dreaded hearing the fear and pain in her voice and knowing he had somehow caused it. There was that illogic again, but he didn't have the strength to argue with it.  
  
He was cold, very cold, and his body shook uncontrollably under the heavy covers. His mind refused to focus anymore, thoughts sloshing about like children splashing in the bathtub. No pattern, no trail that he could follow out of the tangled forest he seemed to be lost in. He thought he yelled out in frustration, a futile attempt to break through his own body's prison.  
  
In and out now, he caught snatches of conversations that could be happening in his room or might just be memories of previous conversations. Or maybe they were merely dreams. His brain could not distinguish anymore.  
  
"Jed?" That sharp tone, commanding, forceful, managed to cut through some of the static. And he heard exactly what he had not wanted to hear. Fear. Pain. She was scared.  
  
He tried to answer, was pretty certain he was not successful.  
  
"Jed, listen to me. What do you see? Tell me what you can see."  
  
Working hard to push the words forward to his lips, he just couldn't find the energy. His body felt as if it were shutting down, folding in on him. He tried to fight it, tried to rebel against the certainty that if he let it win, he wouldn't survive.  
  
"Jed?" The pleading in her tone grabbed something deep inside him, gave him a rope to hang on to and he twisted his mind and what was left of his strength around that rope, pulling himself toward it.  
  
He must have managed some success because the conversations became clearer now, even though they had to plow through the thickness in his head.  
  
Something pressed against his forehead. A hand maybe. "He's burning up."  
  
"Get a reading." That was Hackett. Wasn't something wrong with him, too? Jed couldn't remember. But he felt the cool probe gently enter his good ear and heard it hesitate a little before the beep.  
  
"Dear Lord," Abbey whispered.  
  
"What?" Hackett again, from off in the distance.  
  
A rough sigh. "One hundred and three."  
  
That was probably not too good. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember his temperature ever being quite that -  
  
Before he could finish his thought, the covers were stripped abruptly from him and chills swept over his body. He knew he shook violently, couldn't stop himself even if he concentrated. Strong hands lifted his shoulders from the bed. Softer ones grabbed at the sweatshirt and jerked it over his head.  
  
" - cold - " he managed to protest through chattering teeth.  
  
"I know, Sweetheart," came the reply, the regret clear in her voice. "Listen to me, Jed."  
  
He thought he was listening, but she didn't seem to think so, because he felt her take his face in her hands and turn it toward her. He opened his eyes to the dark blob that used to be his wife, yearning to see her eyes again.  
  
"Listen, we've gotta get your fever down, before any permanent damage is done."  
  
Permanent damage? Yes, let's avoid that if possible. Permanent damage is so - permanent. He tried to nod.  
  
"Ron and Charlie are going to get you up." There was probably a sexual joke in there for her, but he couldn't wrap his humor around it just now.  
  
"They are going to take you into the shower, all right?"  
  
Well, I'd rather have you take me in the shower -  
  
"It'll be cold, but it'll be all right. It will be all right. Do you understand?"  
  
Sure. I think. He nodded - maybe. A cold shower. He'd had to do that before but not for the same reason.  
  
And then he was dragged from the bed, shaking almost to the point of convulsions, only in his boxers, freezing cold. Was this any way to treat the President of the United States? His arms were thrown over the shoulders of the two men and they practically carried him into the bathroom where the brighter light illuminated his surroundings only a fraction better. He saw the vague outline of the shower stall, heard the spray hit the tile. Then he was shoved underneath that stream of water. It took his breath and he gasped as it ran over his head and down his body. God, that was cold. The shivers grew worse and he realized suddenly that both Charlie and Ron stood with him, their clothes soaked, but their arms firmly around him. He wondered in a strangely detached way if they wore waterproof watches.  
  
"How long?" Ron spluttered.  
  
Jed didn't hear a response, but the spray continued for some time. He tried to say something, tried to let them know that was a cruel thing to do, but he still couldn't seem to manage speech at the moment. Maybe he lost consciousness again, maybe not. Once, he was pulled out and the thermometer used again, but he did not pass the test, apparently, because they thrust him back under the water.  
  
In his next moment of awareness he realized that the stream had stopped and he was propped on the edge of the tub, still braced by the strength of his shower mates. A rough towel rubbed over his head, across his chest and back, down his legs.  
  
He smelled her perfume, the sweetness of her hair. "Abbey?"  
  
"Yeah," she answered, a little breathless as she worked the absorbent cloth over him. "How do you feel?"  
  
Truthfully, he felt rather numb, as if he had jumped into the pond back home in January. He stumbled back into the larger, darker room, still held between Ron and Charlie, still shivering from the cold, but maybe not as severely. They dripped on his right and left, shivering themselves, and somewhere deep within he felt a little awed that they would do that for him. The boxers had become rather uncomfortable, cold and wet and plastered to his body. And then they were pulled off him - he hoped Abbey had been the one to do that - and he slid back under the covers, their weight not as heavy this time.  
  
His heart and head pounded with the trauma he had just endured. He grasped for comprehension, clawed at clarity. The blurred shadows remained and he searched for one that could be Abbey, calling her name. The identified blob moved and a firm grip took his hand, squeezed.  
  
"Jed?" Still the fear beneath the professional mask. Still the pain.  
  
"Hey." His voice barely sounded in the room but she heard it.  
  
"You're going to be okay, Baby." She stroked his forehead with her free hand. "What do you see?"  
  
"Sort of - blurry - fuzzy." Maybe a clearer blur, if that made any sense.  
  
"Can you see shapes?"  
  
"A little, if it's not too - dark." He could see her frame, a dark halo of hair surrounding the lighter skin of her face. Was that better than before? He wasn't sure.  
  
"Okay. It's okay." He had heard that tone before, so gentle, so understanding. Like a mother soothing a child. And even though he was a grown man, the leader of the free world, there were times that soft verbal caress was the only thing that kept him from disintegrating. Now it bolstered him, strengthened his resolve. "I want you to take these." The same tone, but a clear command.  
  
Obediently, he opened his mouth and felt at least three pills, maybe more, slip in, followed by the touch of a glass at his lips. As the water cooled his tongue, he gulped everything down. And it occurred to him that he must be pretty sick this time. Hell of a time for that to happen. Hell of a time.  
  
Abbey's shadow had moved away. He heard her voice, low, subdued, speaking to Hackett.  
  
"Progress?" the Admiral asked.  
  
"Some. Down to 102.3. And I doubled up on the Advil.  
  
"If it is actual optic neuritis, we'll need to start Prednisone."  
  
"But if it's not?"  
  
A pause. "What are you thinking?"  
  
He tried to concentrate, tried to keep up with the conversation, but their dialogue faded in and out.  
  
Abbey's voice was tentative, experimental. "Uhthoff's Phenomena."  
  
Now it was Hackett's turn to stop. For a long moment there was no sound except the opening of the door. From the solid footsteps and the tall shadow, Jed deduced it was Ron returning, hopefully in dry clothes.  
  
Finally, the Admiral responded. "You are an optimist." He sighed deeply and Jed couldn't tell if it was from the stress of his own illness or from ministering to his President. Maybe both. "Yes. Possibly. That would be - preferable."  
  
Preferable? Okay, Monty, I'll take Preferable over Optic Neuritis and what's behind Door Number Two.  
  
"We should be able to tell within the next few hours if we can get the fever under control."  
  
If? What the hell was that shower escapade all about?  
  
Abbey sighed. "So we continue with the Betaseron and wait?"  
  
"I think so," Hackett agreed and they remained silent for a moment.  
  
Another hand slipped in his, rougher, larger. "Jed?"  
  
He tried to smile, tried to reassure his friend and chief of staff that it was okay, that he would be okay, even though he wasn't sure himself. Leo needed to know that Jed Bartlet was all right - but he also needed to know that the President of the United States was all right. Jed knew what he was thinking. He wondered if he should call Hoynes, wondered if he should already have done so.  
  
Maybe he could help him out. "John?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"John. Where's Hoynes?"  
  
The figure before him shifted uncomfortably. "Observatory."  
  
Jed frowned, trying to convey his intensity into the shadow next to him. "Gotta - tell him. You don't know what - what might happen."  
  
The response held a heavy regret mixed with concession to the truth. "Yeah. I've, uh, I've spoken with him, just in case. He's waiting to see - " His voice faltered, then resumed again quietly. " - to see."  
  
"Me, too." That might have been funny if it wasn't so damned frighteningly true. Still, he was able to laugh a little even if no one else in the room shared his morbid humor.  
  
In truth, he felt a little better. Maybe it was the shower, or maybe the pharmacy they had dumped into him. Of course, feeling better was one thing. Seeing better was an entirely different thing. What would happen if he didn't see better? If this was as good as it got? How would America deal with a President who was legally blind? Were there any Constitutional grounds for that? Would that fall under the 25th Amendment? Could he still do his job?  
  
America might have accepted a President with MS, something they couldn't see, something without any obvious debilitation, but a blind President? He didn't think so. And would they be right? Part of his power, his functioning, was to observe, to read people - their body language, their facial expressions. Without that, could he really be as effective?  
  
He turned his head toward the window, willing his eyes to obey him, to focus, to clarify the vague shadows. But they remained stubbornly unresponsive and he felt the fear again. Fear that this might actually be it. For the rest of his life this was how he would see the world.  
  
How he would see Abbey.  
  
And the thought drove a keen knife of anguish into his heart. Never to see her smile again. Never to watch the rich locks of hair twirl around her gorgeous cheekbones as she moved above him. Never to look into those eyes for that spark that revealed her love, her passion, even her anger. Like nothing else, that prospect terrified him and he felt himself grieving already at the ache it caused.  
  
"Abbey?" he choked out, losing the battle to keep the fear from his voice.  
  
Instantly, she was there, her hand replacing Leo's, her lips touching his forehead, her fingers brushing his cheek. "I'm here, Jed."  
  
Control. Suck it up. He knew Ron was in the room, and for some ridiculous macho reason that he recognized, but yielded to anyway, he couldn't let him see.  
  
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, but he managed to overwhelm the sob that almost pushed its way out. "I - I just - wanted to touch you," he said, but he knew she understood, knew she read him perfectly.  
  
"Oh, Babe," she whispered, her own voice suspiciously fragile. "I'm here. I won't leave."  
  
And she wouldn't. He knew that, too. Regardless of what happened now, she would be with him. And that was enough. It would have to be enough.  
  
It was all he had. 


	6. Chapter Six Leo McGarry

POV: Leo Spoilers: ITSOTG; PC (both only minor) Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, but we love them.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 6/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
"What's the time on the latest photo?"  
  
"O-three-hundred." The voice of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was calm, measured, as usual. Nothing seemed to rattle Fitzwallace. But then, Leo thought, he didn't know everything this time.  
  
The Chief of Staff nodded, even though his listener couldn't see through the cell phone. "Okay. So that's a twenty percent increase in the number of troops along the northern border, right?"  
  
"Twenty-two."  
  
"And you anticipate it'll be up to thirty percent in the next twenty-four hours?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"Why?" It was a simple question, but Leo knew the answers were much more complicated.  
  
Fitz hesitated, probably trying to determine if this was rhetorical. Finally, he chose to offer a possibility. "They are picking a right."  
  
Yeah. He thought so, too. Again, he had to wonder. "Why?"  
  
Now Fitz answered immediately. "They want us involved. They want our guys committed."  
  
"They can't win," Leo said, pretty sure he was right.  
  
"No," Fitz confirmed, and that was a relief. "But that's irrelevant."  
  
Josiah Bartlet's chief of staff peered out the huge window just outside the residence bedroom. The snow had lightened enough for him to see a good portion of the city again. It lay, crisp and pure, its hard angles transformed into soft, smooth hills of velvet white, its bustle cast aside by the consuming silence. It was possibly the most beautiful sight he had witnessed - and the most foreboding.  
  
One hundred and one point eight. That was the last reading Abbey had gotten. Better - much better than 103 and a dousing under a frigid shower. Better - but not good enough.  
  
"Have you told him?" Fitz's practical voice pulled him back. He didn't know yet.  
  
"No. He's, ah - no, I haven't."  
  
He heard the smile in the admiral's tone. "I guess I don't blame you. He'd probably be less than understanding if you interrupted him now. I imagine he had some - celebration plans with the First Lady tonight."  
  
"Yeah. Listen, Fitz, there's something - " The words rushed forward, anxious to follow his sudden urge to unload on this man whose shoulders were broad and strong enough to take on new burdens. " - something I need to tell you."  
  
He heard the humor fall away, even over the connection. "Shoot."  
  
"The President is - not feeling well."  
  
He didn't get an answer for a second or two, then Fitz asked quietly, "Is it - "  
  
Even though he didn't finish, they both knew what he was saying. "It's an ear infection, according to Hackett and Abbey."  
  
But he didn't get the sigh of relief he expected. Fitz knew too much to be satisfied with that. "What else?"  
  
Leo gritted his teeth. No reason not to be honest with this man. He was one of the fourteen - one of the informed even before Rosslyn. With a sigh, Leo came clean. "Honestly, Fitz, I don't know. His fever's been high - "  
  
"How high?"  
  
"High enough to have to cool him off in the shower."  
  
Another long pause. "You talked to Hoynes?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Is he - "  
  
"He's waiting."  
  
"Leo, what have you told Hoynes?"  
  
Again, they both knew what he was saying. Hoynes had not been in on Qumar. That was strictly Leo and Jed and Nancy and the Joint Chiefs. He wasn't sure what Hoynes would have thought - or what he would think now if he knew. Didn't really matter. It was done and now they were dealing with the consequences.  
  
"He doesn't know," he told Fitz.  
  
"He might have to know, if the President can't - "  
  
"Yeah." He didn't want to contemplate that, didn't want to think about a time when the President couldn't make a decision, when the President couldn't - be President.  
  
"Leo?" This voice asked for the truth. "How is he, really?"  
  
This was Fitz. He knew all the skeletons, knew where all the bodies were buried, had helped bury some of them himself. He deserved to know, had proven himself a friend and a trusted confidant.  
  
"He can't see, Fitz."  
  
Now there was absolutely no sound on the other end and he tried to picture his friend's expression. Fitz was not easily shaken, not quick to react, but this news certainly had the impact to affect even the most stable of men. Leo counted in his head, curious about how long they could just wait until someone spoke. He passed one minute and was well into the second one when the admiral finally responded.  
  
"What can I do?" And he wasn't asking as Admiral Fitzwallace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was asking as Fitz, personal friend to Jed Bartlet. The pain in his voice was one Leo had never heard from him before, but the recognition sharpened his own ache.  
  
"Abbey and Hackett are with him. They are doing - I don't know - whatever they can. The fever's down." At least he could offer that bit of good news.  
  
"Can he - is he - can he understand what's happening?" That was hard to hear, just the insinuation that he might not be able to understand.  
  
"Yeah. He's much better in that respect. It really is an ear infection and I think the medicine has stared to kick in a little. And with the fever down, he's more lucid." Hell, he didn't like that word. It told Fitz just how incoherent he had been.  
  
"Does that mean his vision will improve?"  
  
Yes. Say yes. It will. No doubt. Good as new.  
  
"I don't know." The truth. No one knew.  
  
"Well, tell him - tell him I'm here." And that simple message conveyed an enormity of meaning. Fitz was there. As a friend, as a lieutenant, as a leader. His part was covered. He had the President's back.  
  
Again Leo nodded, glancing toward the closed bedroom door. "I will. You'll let me know?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay."  
  
He slid the phone back into his pocket and watched the snow a minute or two longer. Having Fitz in the know made him feel a little better. Fitz would keep his head, would guide him in the best direction. He realized, though, the Admiral was right. Hoynes needed to know about Qumar. If Jed - he swallowed in anticipation of his own disturbing idea - if Jed couldn't deal with this, Hoynes would have to.  
  
As he contemplated returning to the President's sickbed, the door opened and Ron Butterfield stepped out, face in the same stoic lines as always, tall body straight, alert. Leo turned toward him, his own expression stopping the agent without a word.  
  
"He wants to see you," Ron said, and Leo caught an uncharacteristic grimace at his choice of words. "He needs to speak with you," he amended.  
  
"Yeah." But he paused with his hand on the knob. "Ron?"  
  
The agent turned back. "Sir?"  
  
"Thank you for what you did."  
  
Ron didn't move, didn't nod, didn't smile, didn't shrug. "It's my job, sir."  
  
But Leo smiled. The stone-faced secret service man could profess detached interest, but he knew better. They all knew better. Ron hadn't just done his job.  
  
"Well, thanks anyway."  
  
"Yes, sir." And possibly there was a softening around his eyes that allowed just a hint of the truth to show.  
  
The room was dark when he entered, and he paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. When he could see better, he made out Abbey's slender form sitting in the chair next to the bed, her ball gown finally exchanged for jeans and a sweatshirt - one of Jed's, he could tell by the way it swallowed her. Hackett had been packed off, once again, to the Lincoln Bedroom, more antibiotics in him, as well. They were talking in low voices, and he felt some relief when he could discern a logical, calm conversation.  
  
"May be just temporary," Abbey was saying, her hand resting on his arm, her fingers caressing slightly, as if to let him know she was still there.  
  
"But if it's not - "  
  
"Let's deal with that when it comes."  
  
"It's here, Abbey," Jed said flatly, his voice accepting his fate. "We have to deal with it now."  
  
"Jed - "  
  
Leo cleared his throat. They didn't need him eavesdropping. Abbey turned toward him.  
  
Without a word, she stood and walked to the window. Leo stepped into her place next to the bed. "Hey," he greeted.  
  
His friend's blue eyes looked straight at him, and Leo couldn't imagine that Jed wasn't seeing him perfectly. They were still intense, still bright, still full of intelligence. But he knew that he was only a vague blur behind them.  
  
"Hey, Leo."  
  
"You look better."  
  
It was true. He wasn't shivering anymore and his face had paled from the raging flush of fever. Sometime in the past few hours Abbey had helped him into a t-shirt.  
  
"Yeah. I feel better, thanks."  
  
"Not exactly the way I wanted to spend Inauguration night," Leo confessed.  
  
The President chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. He glanced over to where he knew Abbey stood. "Me either."  
  
Then he lifted his chin in a curt move that was characteristic of him. "What's up? Charlie says the city's socked in. National's closed - and Dulles, too."  
  
"That's right, Mister President." Fall into the formal mode. It's easier that way.  
  
"Where are my daughters now?"  
  
He didn't know how much the President remembered from last night. "Ellie's at a friend's house and Liz, Zoey, and Annie are - "  
  
"At C.J.'s. Yeah, I know. I just meant are they still there, now? Have you had any luck getting them here?" The crease between his brows revealed some of the frustration he was feeling. If he couldn't solve his own problem, at least he could solve someone else's.  
  
"I've spoken with C.J. - "  
  
The apprehension bled through his attempt at normalcy as he leaned forward, elbows on thighs. "Did you - do the girls know?"  
  
"I told C.J., but she was going to wait until we knew - well, until we knew more - to tell them."  
  
He lay back on the pillows, exhaling sharply. "Good. No need in worrying them."  
  
They remained silent for a few minutes, only the soft, consistent ticking of the clock marred the uniform stillness of the room. Even Abbey stood unmoving, still facing the window, still giving them their moment together. He watched her back, thinking how small she looked in Jed's shirt, how poignant the set of her shoulders was, how fragile she seemed there in the silhouette of the gray dawn.  
  
And he ached for her. And for Jed. And for himself.  
  
A grand day. A glorious day for all of them, and this was how it ended.  
  
How it ended. That sounded so final. Was this the end? The real end of all they had worked for, of all they had envisioned?  
  
And somehow he knew it wouldn't be, not if he could help it. By God, if he had to, he would help Jed become the first vision-impaired President. It wouldn't change their goals. Wouldn't diminish the potential of the legacy of Josiah Bartlet. It would not.  
  
Inspired, he determined not to treat his friend any differently. And to prove it, perhaps only to himself, he made a firm decision.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Again, Bartlet looked toward him, seeing him enough in some shadowy form to have a target of focus. "Yeah?"  
  
"I've talked to Fitz this morning." Matter-of-fact. Calm. Back to normal business, despite the completely abnormal setting.  
  
And bless him, the President fell right into the moment. "Whatcha got?"  
  
He took a deep breath, barely pausing at his last chance to protect his friend from his own duties. That was not his goal anymore. "Movement along the Qumari border. Increase in twenty percent. Anticipated up to thirty percent within the next twenty-four hours."  
  
He felt the heat from Abbey's glare on the back of his neck, figured even Jed could sense it, but he didn't react, didn't even act as if he knew she had suddenly turned her attention on them.  
  
"What does Fitz think this means?" He could hear the voice strengthen, fill with a firmness of resolve, of responsibility, of determination.  
  
"Provocation. They want us to react."  
  
The President nodded. "Sounds like it. What if we don't?"  
  
Leo shrugged and wondered if Jed saw the movement. "We're not sure. If they pick a fight with Israel, we're involved. If they pick a fight with us - " Well, that was obvious. "Either way, we can't ignore it."  
  
"You're both in agreement?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay. Let's watch them for a while. Let me know if anything deviates from what you've figured will happen. When you can get Fitz up here, we'll look at - " He smiled ruefully, and Leo gritted his teeth at the typical grim humor of his friend as he modified his statement. " - we'll consider our options."  
  
"Yes, sir." Now he remembered something. "Oh, Fitz sent you a message."  
  
Again, the Presidential chin jerked upward in silent invitation.  
  
"He said, 'Tell him I'm here.'"  
  
Leo watched as Bartlet's lips pressed together tightly, as his jaw worked in an effort to keep control of his emotions. Finally, winning the battle, he nodded. "Okay."  
  
"All right, boys, that's enough for now." Apparently Abigail Bartlet had decided the conversation was over. She stepped away from the window, smiling dangerously. Leo could take a hint. Besides, he had done what he needed to do.  
  
"Yes, Ma'm," he replied cooperatively. With a quick touch on Jed's shoulder, he backed away, letting her move into his wake to still any waters he had stirred. And it bolstered him somewhat to see the firmer movement from his friend, to watch him shift in the bed without the grimace of pain or the shaking weakness that had overpowered him earlier.  
  
With at least a speck of hope now, he retreated from the room, leaving the First Couple alone again to deal with this latest test of their strength. Whatever the outcome, he knew it would not affect their devotion to each other.  
  
How it affected the country's confidence, however, was a different story.  
  
Before he could reach the stairs, he was met once again by Ron Butterfield, the ubiquitous expression on his face modified a bit with a disturbing shadow. Instinctively, he waited for the next bombshell.  
  
"Ron?" It asked many things.  
  
"There's a story."  
  
"What?"  
  
"There's a story on the internet."  
  
He couldn't grasp exactly what the agent was telling him. "A story about what?"  
  
The answer was the worst he could have chosen. "About the President."  
  
"About - "  
  
"It's on the Tallahassee Democrat's website."  
  
His mind flew back to the terrifying few moments at the ball, to the narrow escape that they all thought they had made.  
  
"What does - "  
  
"Leo, I think you should read it."  
  
The simple use of his given name gave the chief of staff enough cause for concern. The possibilities of the information contained in the story merely heightened his anxiety. This didn't look good. Not at all.  
  
He began to reassess his feeling of hope. 


	7. Chapter Seven Charlie Young

POV: Charlie Spoilers: Guns, Not Butter Rating: PG Disclaimer: These are not our characters. Nevertheless, we have spared them little.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 7/10 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Charlie had heard Leo McGarry curse before. He had heard the President curse. As a matter of fact, he figured he had heard just about every possible curse from every member of Jed Bartlet's staff at some point in the past three and a half years. Certainly emotions ran high enough in the West Wing of the White House that it was not unusual. In fact, he would have found it strange not to hear an occasional oath.  
  
But the snarl that burst from the lips of the chief of staff in that moment was sole occupant of the pinnacle of vile, nasty epithets, and Charlie couldn't suppress the gasp of surprise at the vehemence that slipped out. Then he realized what that rare loss of control must indicate. For Leo to react so violently could only mean that whatever it was involved the President. And that was never good.  
  
The curse snapped out again, louder this time, harsher. Charlie felt his stomach clench at the fury on the older man's face. What now? Didn't they deserve a little break here? Didn't Josiah Bartlet deserve a break, after all he had been through? Even without knowing what had happened, Charlie felt his blood surge in anger, felt himself actually stand straighter in anticipation of protecting the President of the United States, with physical violence if necessary, from whatever force threatened him this time.  
  
Leo slapped at the keyboard, succeeding, Charlie knew, only in provoking the screen to chide him for his illegal action. He didn't care, wasn't even looking at it anymore. With teeth gritted, he uttered the mother of all curse words one more time before letting out a heavy sigh and rubbing at his forehead. He was working on 24 hours straight without sleep, just like the rest of them. In fact, the only people in the building who had slept at all were Admiral Hackett and the President - though Jed Bartlet's sleep could hardly be described as restful.  
  
The last time Charlie had entered the Residence bedroom, the First Lady had been sitting by his side, cool washcloths and ice packs pressed to his forehead and neck. Apparently, their community shower was only a temporary fix. Had that really happened? He and Ron, on either side of the President, basically dragging him into a freezing shower to attempt to lower his temperature - possibly to save his life? It was all too heavy to truly comprehend. Instead, he concentrated on the reality that he had gotten soaking wet in the shower with Ron Butterfield and Josiah Bartlet. Now that was a story he could tell his grandchildren - or put in the book he would never write about his White House experiences. At least the jeans and turtleneck he now wore were more comfortable than a dripping tuxedo.  
  
Knowing that Leo had been in the Residence since then, he couldn't help but ask, "How is the President?"  
  
No answer. The chief of staff was staring out the doors into the new morning, its clearing skies promise of a blinding day as the sun glinted off the thick blanket of snow. If it got warm enough, maybe they could begin digging out from the worst blizzard in over 100 years.  
  
"Leo?"  
  
Now he turned, face still hard, jaw set in anger or determination or both. "Yeah?"  
  
"How is the President?" Please be good news, Charlie tried to supply him silently.  
  
"Uh, he's - better," Leo said and seemed to be telling him the truth - mostly anyway. "Fever's down a little and he's talking about - " He stopped. Charlie figured he was about to give away a state secret or something. It didn't matter. The President was talking, about business, apparently. That was definitely good news.  
  
"His vision?" Hopefully that was good, too.  
  
McGarry's hesitation said enough. "Same."  
  
"I'd like to do something."  
  
"There's nothing - "  
  
"No, Leo. Really. I'd like to do something for the President - and for you." He nodded to the computer monitor. "Do you need me to keep an eye on something? To update you?" He wanted to help more than just bring Advil and ice packs, not that that wasn't important.  
  
Weighing his decision for a moment, Leo finally said, "Yeah. Well, there is this story that's hit the Net. It's about the President and tonight."  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
Leo's face darkened again in anger. "That damned idiotic child from Florida. You won't believe - you'll never in a million - God, she's stirred up a hornet's nest that will swarm as soon as the rest of the country wakes up. AP will pick it up soon, probably, and even though it's insane, we'll have to answer with something."  
  
Charlie wasn't following exactly, but he understood enough to know that it was bad for the President. "I'll track it," he volunteered.  
  
Broken from his incredulous rant, Leo sighed once, hard, and looked at Charlie. "Good man," he said, a slight smile on his face, and that was a rare reward indeed.  
  
He obediently followed the computer's instructions for correcting his error and pulled up the article. Charlie read quickly, his eyes skimming down the screen, scrolling to reach the end. As he read, he understood Leo's wrath.  
  
"President Josiah Bartlet, leader of the Free World, self-proclaimed moral defender, father of three, surprised his supporters, and eventually his country, by leaving his Inaugural Ball in a state of complete intoxication, so incapacitated as to necessitate assistance from both his chief of staff and head of security. The irony in this, since Leo McGarry is an admitted alcoholic - "  
  
The story continued in its arrogant, abusive language, but Charlie's wavering vision forced him to stop reading. Fury swept before his eyes, making him dizzy with its intensity, and he heard himself echo Leo's oath.  
  
"This is - this is - " He couldn't finish.  
  
Leo, who had calmed somewhat, merely nodded. "Yeah. It is."  
  
"We can't let her write that. It's libel. It's a complete lie. Leo, you can't let her write that! Surely people won't believe this!" What gall that girl had to print this.  
  
The chief of staff sighed. "Maybe, maybe not, but what do we say in his defense? That he wasn't drunk, he was just having an MS attack? Hell, Charlie, that'd make even bigger headlines."  
  
He knew Leo was probably right, but he couldn't just let her defame the character of Josiah Bartlet, the most moral man Charlie had ever met. "What can we do?" he asked quietly, almost to himself.  
  
"I don't know, Charlie. I don't know." It was a mark of his exhaustion that Leo didn't snap out a reassurance, a determined statement of confidence. He rubbed his forehead wearily and fell back against the doorframe. "Just keep an eye on that site and let me know when CNN or AP picks it up, because they will."  
  
He nodded. It was the least he could do. "Yes, sir."  
  
McGarry plodded back toward the Residence, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. But Charlie knew before he reached his destination, the step would quicken, the shoulders would straighten. Jed Bartlet wouldn't see him in any mode less than his best.  
  
Turning back to lock his attention on the screen, he almost jumped when the muted ring of his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Of the people who had his number, half were already in the building. That left Josh, Toby, C.J., Deena, and - "  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"What is going on?"  
  
He knew the voice immediately and felt the sensation of both excitement and dread shiver through him. "Zoey."  
  
"What's wrong with my dad?"  
  
He swallowed, surprised but not surprised that she knew - or suspected anyway. Still, he owed it to the President to at least make an attempt at innocence. "What do you mean?"  
  
The laugh carried neither humor nor patience. "Don't screw with me, Charlie."  
  
"Well, now that you mention it - "  
  
"Charlie - " The voice turned to pleading, and that was something he couldn't combat.  
  
"It's okay, Zoey. He's okay. Are you still at C.J.'s?"  
  
"Yeah. What's wrong?"  
  
"Hasn't C.J. talked with Leo?"  
  
"Yeah. What's wrong?"  
  
"Didn't C.J. - "  
  
"Damn it, Charlie," she yelled, "C.J. forced us to play inane card games until we escaped and went to bed. She knows something but she won't spill it. Now you tell me what's going on right now or I'll tell Daddy about the time we met in the back of the library and - "  
  
"Okay. Okay, Zoey." Not that he figured she would really tell. Even she wouldn't be brave enough to face Jed Bartlet's wrath over that. "He has an ear infection."  
  
"And?"  
  
"What do you mean 'and'?"  
  
"And there's more to it. C.J. wouldn't be so tight-lipped about just an ear infection."  
  
He couldn't tell her. Not over the phone, not so bluntly. "He's been running a fever, that's all. And Leo just told me it's down now. Okay?"  
  
She hesitated, contemplating whether or not to believe him. "Charlie?"  
  
"Really, Zoey," he said, hoping she wouldn't cut out too many of his organs when she discovered the rest of the story.  
  
"Well - "  
  
"As soon as they can get the major thoroughfares open, they are going to see about getting you guys back here." He had heard Ron say something about that, anyway.  
  
"How's Mom?"  
  
"She's good. And Admiral Hackett's here, although he's sick, too." Damn. That probably hadn't helped.  
  
But Zoey actually laughed. "Of course. Murphy's Law. Can I talk with him?"  
  
"Admiral Hackett?" But he knew that wasn't whom she meant.  
  
"Duh. My dad."  
  
Could she? He wasn't sure if the President was up to it, yet, and he sure didn't want to alarm her any more than she was.  
  
"Let me see if he's awake. Your mom's been making sure he rested." After she had him doused under a forty-degree shower, anyway.  
  
"Well, she'd probably have to slip him a knock-out drug."  
  
He winced. That wasn't far from the truth. "I'll call you in a minute or two and let you know."  
  
"Well - "  
  
"Zoey, I'll call you."  
  
Finally, he heard her sigh in defeat. "Okay. Soon, though, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Charlie?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He smiled as they hung up. He still had not given up on Zoey. He would get her back. Even the President was on his side - well, sort of, and only under very special, very limited circumstances, he had clearly been told - or perhaps warned was a more accurate term.  
  
Clicking the mouse, he scanned the recent news stories, waiting for their targeted one to pop onto the breaking news scene. It took only another twelve minutes for cnn.com to post it and another minute after that for the rest of the major news sites to cash in. Jacqueline Handlin's byline was now plastered across the World Wide Web, her libelous accusations splattering computer screens around the globe.  
  
As much as he hated to, he had to tell Leo, knew the chief of staff would expect it. With a final spitting of their shared profanity, he headed to the Residence.  
  
His first sight of the President of the United States was of him sitting on the side of the bed making use once more of the Louisa Adams vase. Okay, that was probably not a good sign. Rushing over to grab to vessel, he watched Leo and Abbey coaxing Bartlet back under the covers, his body shaking, his face pale and clammy.  
  
This time, the President muttered the curse that he and Leo had shared. Maybe that was just the word for the day. Usually, the First Lady would berate him for such a crude choice, but she allowed him this liberty. He had earned it.  
  
"Mister President?" he couldn't help asking.  
  
Leo answered for Bartlet. "It's okay, Charlie. He tried to get up. The infection's still got him dizzy."  
  
"I'm okay," the President insisted, although no one believed him.  
  
Still, even under the circumstances, he did look better than the last time Charlie had seen him. His eyes were open, at least. But that thought evaporated under a sudden wash of sickness. His eyes. They may be open, but they weren't doing him much good. He looked at his boss, tried to determine if Jed Bartlet could see him, but the man's face had turned away from him, had pointed toward the brightness streaming in from the window. He wondered if he could see that, if he could tell enough to know that it was daytime now. And would that be enough, if that was all he could see?  
  
What would happen to him if this were what he was left with? Would it be enough for him? Would it be enough for America? With a sense of protectiveness, Charlie decided that it would be sufficient for him, anyway. Josiah Bartlet was the President of the United States. Whether he could tell if it was night or day outside didn't matter.  
  
Leaving the receptacle in the bathroom, Charlie waited until Bartlet was settled back in and the First Lady had stepped away to ease closer. "Uh, Mister President?"  
  
Now Bartlet shifted to look at him, or toward him, at least. The eyes were the same, sharp, kind, compassionate. It seemed impossible that they would stop serving him. Instead of answering verbally, the President jerked his chin upward, a move so characteristic of him, Charlie almost forgot their current predicament. Almost.  
  
"Sir, Zoey called and - "  
  
"Zoey?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Did she ask - "  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Damn." He sighed and looked back toward the window.  
  
"You have to tell them sometime, Jed," Abbey offered softly. "You told me yourself not an hour ago that we have to deal with this now."  
  
"WE do. They don't. Not yet." Even though the voice was soft, the words were crisp and clear.  
  
"They'll be pissed if they find out from someone else."  
  
The sagging of her husband's shoulders was solid evidence that she had hit the target. Charlie knew, from painful personal experience, what the result of not being totally truthful to Zoey Bartlet could be. And he didn't doubt that it more than tripled with all three Bartlet girls.  
  
With a heavy sigh, the President turned back toward Charlie. "Has C.J. told them anything?"  
  
"Not exactly, sir."  
  
The eyes in question narrowed. "What do you mean 'not exactly'?"  
  
Someone nervously cleared a throat. He realized it was his. "Well, I mean, she hasn't said anything, but it's what she's NOT saying that has thrown - suspicions on the situation."  
  
"How much do they know?"  
  
"It's an ear infection and you've been running a fever."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Another sigh. "Okay. Call C.J.'s house for me, would you? I'll talk to them."  
  
It took him only a few seconds to place the call. Zoey, taking him at his word, answered.  
  
"Charlie?"  
  
"Hey, Zoey."  
  
"You got him?"  
  
"I got him."  
  
He handed the phone to the President, flinching when no hand extended to take it. Again, realization slapped him hard in the face. Swallowing, he brushed Bartlet's fingers with the object, allowing him to clasp it and bring it to his good ear.  
  
"Hey Munchkin," he greeted, the cheer in his voice not mirrored in his face.  
  
Charlie could only imagine the thoughts going through Zoey's head right now. She knew her dad was sick, knew what that could mean. What if she didn't fall for his reassurances?  
  
"Nah, I'm fine," Bartlet said, waving a hand that she couldn't see. "Really. I'm feeling better already."  
  
A narrow truth.  
  
"Your mom made me follow orders last night."  
  
An understatement.  
  
"Hackett's worse off than I am."  
  
An outright lie.  
  
From the crease between the President's eyebrows, Charlie interpreted that the conversation wasn't going as smoothly as he would have liked. Frustration grew in Bartlet's voice.  
  
"No, that's not necess - Hi, Liz." He winced. "Yeah, that's right. That's what I told Zoey. Just an ear infection."  
  
He waited quietly, mouth poised to speak, but unable to merge into her verbal traffic. Finally, he just jumped in. "I promise, Sweetheart. You just stay at C.J.'s until we can clear you out."  
  
Another few moments of silence passed, with him listening uncharacteristically.  
  
"No. Really, I'm fine, Liz. C.J.'s just being - protective." Now his teeth gritted and Charlie felt suddenly sorry for the press secretary, knowing she was just following almost impossible orders.  
  
"Okay. Tell Annie I love her. We'll see you - " He faltered, but recovered quickly. " - soon."  
  
Somehow his daughters let him off the phone and he held it out toward Charlie, who took it right away.  
  
"Damn. I'm dead meat when they get over here."  
  
Abbey agreed. "Why didn't you just tell them, Jed?"  
  
He smiled, a strange clash against the sadness on his face. "What good would it have done, Abbey? What could they do except worry and fret over not being here. They'll find out soon enou - " The last word broke off in a choked sob that he wrestled back inside, coloring at the realization that it had been heard nevertheless.  
  
Fighting down his own loss of control, Charlie took refuge in his news for Leo, who stood facing the fireplace, trying to give his best friend a little privacy. "Mister McGarry, that story you had me tracking - "  
  
Straightening instantly, the chief of staff took a step toward him. "Yeah?"  
  
"Been picked up."  
  
"What story?" That was Abbey Bartlet, her petite stature a strange contradiction to her powerful presence.  
  
"It's nothing," Leo assured her. "Just some stuff I asked Charlie to watch. No big - "  
  
"What's the story, Leo?" This voice carried an even more powerful presence, and the office behind it, to boot. They faced Jed Bartlet, who had sat straighter in the bed and swung his legs over the side once more.  
  
"Jed - "  
  
But he waved off his wife, a brave act - or a foolhardy one. "What's the story, Leo?"  
  
The chief of staff was saved by his own cell phone ringing. With relief flooding his face, he apologized and snapped it open. "Yeah?"  
  
They watched, but his expression did not waiver as the conversation continued. After a moment, Charlie realized it must be Admiral Fitzwallce. That was usually not good news. Finally, Leo slid the phone back into his pocket and turned toward the bed.  
  
"Mister President?" he said formally, draping the title of the office around the patient.  
  
Accepting the curtain, Jed Bartlet set his jaw and acknowledged, "Yes."  
  
"Admiral Fitzwallace has reliable sources that tell us Qumar has reached a twenty-five percent increase in forces along the border."  
  
The President digested that as if it were no surprise at all. Charlie wondered what it meant, wondered what the significance was, wondered if this was an anti-climactic declaration of war between their countries.  
  
"Who do we go through?"  
  
Didn't make sense to Charlie, but Leo seemed to understand perfectly.  
  
"The Saudi ambassador."  
  
"Okay. Tell them if we don't see evidence of reduction - five percent by evening today, ten percent by morning tomorrow - the Kennedy is lying off their coast just waiting to try out a few war game scenarios."  
  
"Jed - " Abbey began, but stopped when she saw his face.  
  
"Tell them," he continued, jaw hard, eyes hard, words hard. "Tell them they don't want a war today."  
  
If he had planned to say anything in protest, Leo decided against it. "Yes, Mister President," he said, and relayed the precise wording of the order over the phone to Fitzwallace. There was apparently no hesitation on the other end, because Leo was finished within a minute or two.  
  
"If that's all, Mister Pres - "  
  
But the chief of staff was interrupted. "What story?"  
  
Nice try, Leo, Charlie thought.  
  
There seemed no blowing this off, so McGarry shrugged and tried to play it down. "A non-story. That ditzy reporter who stopped you on the way out of the ballroom."  
  
Bartlet frowned at him. "What reporter?"  
  
"The one who - " Now all of them looked toward the President. "Don't you remember?"  
  
The panic that swept Bartlet's face was almost immediately swept clean. "What'd she write about?"  
  
But Abbey wouldn't be distracted from this. "Jed, are you telling me you don't remember the girl stopping you when we were trying to get you out of the ballroom?"  
  
Everyone in the room tensed.  
  
The President sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm not telling you that."  
  
Good. Okay. They all allowed their muscles to ease just a bit.  
  
"I'm telling you I don't remember the ballroom."  
  
Tension now took on a whole new meaning.  
  
The First Lady moved in close, took her husband's hand, turned his face toward her. "Tell me the last thing you remember," she ordered quietly, all business now, deadly serious.  
  
Charlie swallowed, sensing that he was witnessing a significant moment.  
  
The President pressed his lips together in thought, closed his eyes, as if trying to replay events in his mind. "I - uh - I remember how beautiful you looked in your gown and I figured before we started our rounds of the balls, we could -" He stopped and smirked, looking toward her again. "Well, it wouldn't have hurt to be a little late, would it?"  
  
Charlie's amused chuckle stopped in his throat when he caught the pain on Abbey Bartlet's face. She would usually have made light her of husband's teasing, but she clearly felt something quite different this time. The aid couldn't read it exactly, but he saw her wipe quickly at her eye.  
  
"No," she whispered and now Bartlet sensed it, too.  
  
"Hey," he said, sliding his hand up her arm until he cupped her face. "It's all right, Abbey."  
  
At the same time, Charlie found himself backing away, along with Leo, both of them suddenly aware of their intrusion. Both of them unwilling to take that moment away from the President and First Lady - from Jed and Abbey.  
  
What transpired after that, he couldn't hear, made an effort not to hear. But a few moments later Abbey stood and slipped outside the room, muttering something about speaking with Hackett as she left. For an awkward minute or two, no one moved. Then Bartlet cleared his throat and called out for Leo.  
  
"Sir?" came the instant reply.  
  
"The weather? What's the predicted thaw?"  
  
"I don't know, Mister President. I'll check on that."  
  
"It's just - I'd like for my daughters to be able to get here. Ellie's at - "  
  
"Yes, sir. We know where they all are."  
  
"Right."  
  
"I'll take care of it," he assured his best friend, seemingly relieved to be doing something to help.  
  
His departure left only the two of them. Charlie shuffled a bit to let the President know he was still there. Bartlet ran a hand through his hair, wild and completely disheveled from being wet and drying again after the shower. It made him look younger, despite the haggard lines on his face.  
  
"That you, Charlie?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Come over here."  
  
Without hesitation, he walked to the bed, placed a hand on the President's shoulder briefly to verify his presence.  
  
Bartlet took a deep breath before he raised his eyes. "Look Charlie, I just wanted to say - "  
  
Oh God. Charlie knew what was coming, knew what his boss was about to say. And despite the warmth, the joy that those words would give him, he didn't think he could actually handle hearing them at the moment. His own emotions were far too fragile.  
  
Desperately, he tried to wave off the attempt. "There's no need, Mister President."  
  
But it wasn't that easy. "No," Bartlet insisted. "I want to. I need to tell you - "  
  
Steeling himself, locking his jaw, he tried again. "Really, sir, it's not necessary - "  
  
Now Bartlet's face darkened and he snapped, "Would you shut the hell up and let me thank you?"  
  
The irony of his tone and the words helped Charlie get past what he had feared. Again, he was in control. With even a bit of amusement, he said, "Yes, sir."  
  
His boss calmed with that acknowledgement. "What you and Ron did for me was - well - it went way beyond the call of duty."  
  
Did he really think that? Did he not realize - "It wasn't duty, sir."  
  
A brow raised in surprise was his question and he clarified with an answer from the very center of his heart. "It was a privilege, Mister President."  
  
Dear God. Those eyes might not be able to see, but they surely could show emotion. For a long moment neither man said anything. Charlie didn't trust himself to speak, and has suspicions that the President was struggling with the same difficulty.  
  
Finally, Bartlet nodded and extended his hand for Charlie to shake, but when their fingers touched, the President abandoned formalities and pulled him into a hug that said everything their words could not. He clasped Charlie's shoulders tightly for almost half a minute before releasing him.  
  
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry - oh hell. Who cares? Charlie felt the drops slide down his cheeks but didn't wipe them away. Even though the President couldn't have seen them, he knew they were there, just like the ones that shimmered in his own eyes.  
  
The surge of affection - no, love, he corrected - that he felt for this man almost overwhelmed him, but he resisted another display, realizing Jed Bartlet had needed that moment, but that now he needed to step back into their usual mode.  
  
"Is that all, Mister President?" he asked and saw the gratitude for that in his boss's face.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, that's it for now."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
As soon as he opened the door, Abbey was passing him on the way back in, her keen eyes sweeping him, the room, the President all in one motion. If she sensed what had occurred, she didn't reveal anything.  
  
"Charlie?" The soft call stopped him at the door.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"What's the story say?"  
  
Torn between garnering the wrath of Leo McGarry or the disappointment of Jed Bartlet, he hesitated. But when he spoke, he knew it was his only answer. "It infers that you were drunk, Mister President, at the last ball. That you were escorted out by Mr. McGarry and Agent Butterfield because you were too intoxicated to walk by yourself."  
  
The fury on Abigail Bartlet's face was an intensity that Charlie had rarely seen - and he had seen her pretty angry on quite a number of occasions. He didn't even want to contemplate what the President's response would be. When Bartlet fell into righteous indignation, his ire could peel paint off the wall. This promised to be a memorable moment.  
  
But the strange rumbling sound that came from the bed confused him until it erupted into laughter, totally loose, totally natural, laughter from deep within the President's chest. Even Abbey turned to stare in disbelief at her husband. He leaned back against the pillows, hand pressed to his forehead, body shaking, not from fever or from weakness, but from sheer hilarity.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
But he couldn't reply yet, still allowed the spasms of humor to have their way. Maybe, Charlie thought, he had just lost it. Maybe this was so unimaginable that Jed Bartlet just couldn't deal with one more complication and he finally had broken. If that was the case, they were all in trouble.  
  
But eventually, the laughter subsided and he regained control, still shaking his head, still smiling. "Holy Mother," he breathed, "I needed that."  
  
"Jed, are you all right?"  
  
The smile widened. "Hell yes. That's what she came up with? That I was drunk?"  
  
"You can't take this lightly, Mister President."  
  
Charlie spun at the new voice. He hadn't even heard Leo come in. The President started a bit, too.  
  
"How else should I take it, Leo? It's absurd."  
  
"I know that. You know that. The staff knows that. But what about the rest of the nation?"  
  
Charlie wanted to say, "The hell with the rest of the nation," but it wasn't his place anymore. This was a conversation between the chief of staff and the President. His private moment with Jed Bartlet was over.  
  
"Do you honestly think they would believe - "  
  
"Some would. Some people assume if it's in print, it's true. It doesn't matter that you've shown yourself to be a man of good character for four years already." He wasn't cutting his friend any slack.  
  
Now the smile had faded completely from the President's face. "What do we do? We can't get into a shouting match with her."  
  
"We could issue a statement saying how ludicrous it is."  
  
Bartlet shook his head. "And prove what? That's what they expect."  
  
"Short of seeing you in person, I don't think - "  
  
"Okay."  
  
In the momentary silence that followed, a thrill of stunned realization swept through Charlie. Surely, he wasn't suggesting -  
  
"What?" Leo seemed a little stunned himself.  
  
"Let's do it. Let them see me in person."  
  
Dear Lord. He was.  
  
"Jed," Abbey started in warning, eyebrows drawing together.  
  
"Mister President," Leo said. "You are hardly in any condition to make a statement from the Oval right now."  
  
He waved a hand in dismissal. "I didn't mean we'd do that."  
  
"You didn't?" the chief of staff asked, still suspicious.  
  
"No. I meant we'd do a press conference. Me in the press room with whatever reporters can get here in this weather."  
  
The clock ticked loudly, its precise rhythm keeping the beat of time. No one spoke. No one breathed, almost. They were all trying to make sense of what had just been said.  
  
Charlie flashed back to the chaos of the night: Shuffling the President from the limo to the Residence. Pausing to let him throw up in a historic vase. Dragging him under a cold shower so he wouldn't go into convulsions from skyrocketing fever. Plying him with Advil and Tylenol and antibiotics. Agonizing over the horrifying realization that he couldn't - even now Charlie had trouble facing it - that he couldn't see.  
  
Was he seriously suggesting that he could stand up before a group of reporters and bluff them into thinking everything was fine and dandy? Was he even suggesting he could stand up at all?  
  
Finally, Abigail Bartlet broke the silence and voiced what everyone else was wondering. "Are you completely out of your mind?"  
  
But Bartlet ignored her. Maybe it was easier since he couldn't see their incredulous expressions. "Really. If I can go out there and show them that I was obviously not drunk last night, that I am not recovering from a massive hangover, her absurd story will simply fall apart."  
  
"Pardon my saying so, Mister President," Leo asked, "but what's to keep YOU from falling apart?"  
  
The First Lady took the opportunity to add to the argument. "Jed, you can't even see. How are you going to walk onto that stage and call on reporters? You'll have no idea who you're talking to - if you even make it out there without falling flat on your face."  
  
That was blunt, painful, for all of them to hear, but it had to be said. He had to know how unreasonable his idea was.  
  
So it was almost shocking when he set his jaw and assured them, "I can do this. Get C.J. here, at least, and let's talk about it."  
  
They stopped, unsure of what to do next, but it was testament to the power of Josiah Bartlet's confidence and determination and personality that they all actually seemed to consider it. Charlie thought in that moment that this was perhaps the bravest - and the craziest - thing he had ever seen.  
  
But he did know one thing for certain. If anybody could pull it off, it was Jed Bartlet. 


	8. Chapter Eight CJ Cregg

POV: C.J. Spoilers: "The Long Goodbye" (minor) Rating: PG Disclaimer: Although we have a blast playing with these characters, they are not ours.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 8/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
C.J. Cregg concentrated on breathing, just in case her body forgot that essential function. As press room crowds went, it was a low showing, but considering the fact that neither National nor Dulles Airport was open, and the Beltway remained blocked, those present represented the truly determined - and probably as hostile an audience as Josiah Bartlet could have faced today.  
  
Not for the first time, she challenged her brain to prove that all this was real - that it was actually happening. That the President of the United States was about to hold a press conference despite the fact that he was still flushed with fever, still limping on his right leg - and still couldn't see where he was going or to whom he was talking.  
  
No, her brain told her, this couldn't be happening. But yet another pinch from her own hand brought reality clearly into horrible focus.  
  
Yes. It was.  
  
She closed her eyes briefly to steady herself and found her thoughts clicking back twelve hours, back before this craziness had begun, back before she had started questioning the sanity of the President of the United States, as well as her own.  
"How is he?" Zoey asked.  
  
They stood in the door of the South Portico, the warmth of the building vainly pushing against the brittle cold invading it with their entrance. C.J. glanced once more at her companions, daughters and granddaughter of the President, four very anxious, very worried ladies.  
  
Having failed miserably in her task to keep the Bartlet girls ignorant of their father's condition, she had finally broken down after Charlie admitted to Zoey some of what was happening. The red flash of pain, followed by the darkening concern that crossed their faces had been painful to witness. Only the timely arrival of a rescue detail, accompanied by a snowplow, saved her from the threat of total emotional collapse.  
  
The torturously slow journey to the White House passed in relative silence, all of them lost in their own anxious anticipations. It was broken only once, when they managed to extract Ellie from her own ice prison. But each remained lost in her own world as the pristine city passed by, stretched out for them like a patriotic Currier and Ives print.  
  
He couldn't see. She had kept that bit of knowledge to herself, unwilling to be the one that dropped the bombshell. But it wouldn't be secret long - not even in the midst of a snowstorm. Maybe if they could keep him isolated, at least until they came up with a strategy to prepare the country for a blind President.  
  
Hell, how do you do that?  
  
As they piled into the historic building, grateful to escape the bitterness outside, C.J. raised a brow at the President's personal aid. Charlie greeted them quietly, looking more haggard than she had even seen him. If he had slept at all last night, it didn't show.  
  
"He's okay," he said, answering Zoey's question, but his voice carried no conviction.  
  
"Charlie?" Liz's voice probed and demanded simultaneously.  
  
Almost wincing, he pressed his lips together for a moment, then decided, "I'll let him tell you."  
  
Now C.J. winced herself at the immediately tense energy that snapped across the narrow hall.  
  
But Liz's response was soft, carefully calm. "What will you let him tell us?"  
  
The young man stood his ground bravely. "Sorry. This is his call."  
  
And no amount of cajoling from any of them pulled anything else from his lips. The only ones who remained completely silent were Ellie and Annie. C.J. noted that they both wore the same pale, drawn expressions. When they finally reached the bedroom doors of the Residence, the air fairly crackled with anticipation. C.J. wasn't sure what to expect, didn't know how she would respond if things were as bad as she feared.  
  
At first, the scene was normal enough with Abbey sitting by the bed and the President propped on pillows, sipping what looked like soup from her offered spoon. The first thing she noticed was his hair, scattered and wild, as if he had been swimming and not dried it. The stubble on his jaw and chin added to the general appearance of roughness. She blinked, fighting back the shock. Finding him so unkempt was unusual. It looked like it had been a rough night.  
  
Abbey whispered to him and he turned his head toward them, a slight smile lightening his face. At least he looked a little more like himself that way.  
  
"Hello, ladies," he greeted, motioning them over with his left hand.  
  
"Dad?" Zoey asked, her voice betraying the fear they all tried to control.  
  
"I'm all right, Munchkin," he assured her. C.J. noticed he didn't take the hand she extended. Abbey's eyes shifted from her husband to her daughter.  
  
"Dad?" Again Zoey asked, the fear pushing her voice higher as she comprehended that he wasn't focusing on her at all.  
  
Now Bartlet realized he must have missed something. "Sweetheart - " he began, but Liz interrupted, stepping closer, taking his hand in hers.  
  
With the words forced from her lips, she asked, "What's wrong?"  
  
The President started to shake his head in denial, but these were his daughters, after all. They had his blood in them, and they weren't buying it.  
  
Her tone shaking a little, his middle child finally spoke, demanding, "Daddy, what's wrong?"  
  
The tears that shone in his eyes brought the same display to C.J.'s eyes. Maybe it was the word "Daddy" that got him. Or maybe he realized he couldn't hide it from them. Or maybe it was just who had asked.  
  
With a sigh, he waved a casual hand. "I - I have an ear infection."  
  
"And?" Zoey again.  
  
Bartlet actually smiled at his youngest. "You're too smart for your own good, young lady," he fussed lightly.  
  
"And?" she prompted with insistence.  
  
"And - it probably triggered an attack."  
  
They nodded, already having figured that out, but it was painful to hear so bluntly stated.  
  
"Are you okay?" Liz asked, her fingers tightening around his.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine - except - "  
  
He didn't seem to be able to continue for a minute. Abbey placed a hand on his shoulder in support and he gathered enough strength to finish.  
  
"I can't - see very well."  
  
"Blurry vision?" Ellie asked, knowing he had experienced that in the past.  
  
"Of a sort."  
  
C.J. frowned. What did he mean by that? Liz voiced the same question.  
  
"I -- l, uh - I can't see, really, at all."  
  
Silence. Cold and loud and brutal. C.J. didn't think she had ever heard silence so clearly, without even a creaking door or rustling fabric to break it. It took almost an entire minute for someone to respond. It was the President himself.  
  
"It may go away," he offered weakly. "Mom says it could be Uhthoff's. If it is - "  
  
"You can't see?" Zoey finally managed to ask. "You can't see at all?"  
  
Slowly, he shook his head. "Lights and darks. And sometimes vague shapes. But that's - that's about it."  
  
C.J. watched Abbey's face freeze as if she had not heard exactly how bad it was from her husband. The excruciating moment stretched on until Liz spoke.  
  
"What are you going to do, Daddy?'  
  
Funny how a grown woman still calls her father "Daddy." But that's who he is and that's who he will be until he is dead - and even after. C.J. thought of her own father and wondered how much longer he would even know he was her daddy. And she ached suddenly, both for the sorrow between the Bartlet girls and their daddy and for the trials that were just beginning with hers.  
  
The strength that colored the President's voice brought her back, straightened her backbone. "I'll do what I have to do, Baby," he said, assuring himself as much as he was assuring all of them.  
  
And then they were in his arms, Liz and Zoey, Ellie, and even Annie, clinging to him, kissing him, and crying. C.J. stepped back toward the door, regretful that she was intruding, intent on leaving them to their privacy. But Abbey stopped her.  
  
"Don't leave, Claudia," she said softly. "We need you."  
  
She didn't know what on earth she could offer them, but if there was something - anything - she would do it.  
  
By now the girls sat at the end of the bed, wiping their eyes, but composed. The President looked toward her, almost as if he saw her, but she knew better.  
  
"C.J.," he began.  
  
She didn't hesitate. "Sir." And that meant, "How high, Mister President?"  
  
"I need you to set up a press conference."  
  
Of course. She had dreaded that. What could she say at this point? And how could she say it without starting wide-spread panic?  
  
"Yes, sir. Will Toby have a statement for me to read?" She wasn't exactly sure where Toby was. Had he gotten back, as well? Or was she just lucky to have been with the First Daughters and ranked priority that way?  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay. So Will's going to do it?" He wasn't exactly on staff - yet, anyway, but he had done a whale of a job helping Toby with the Inaugural Address.  
  
"No."  
  
God, surely he didn't want her to write it herself? Something like this? She didn't think -  
  
"I'll do it."  
  
Oh. Okay. Well, that was better. Even though the President enlisted talented speechwriters, he was certainly no slouch himself in that category. Still, with something this monumental, she figured he needed to be absolutely certain about the wording.  
  
"No offense, Mister President," she suggested carefully, "but we can get Toby on the phone, probably, and he can help you - "  
  
"I didn't mean I'd write the speech, C.J.," he said, and she was almost sure she saw a twinkle in his eye.  
  
"Sir?" Now she was confused.  
  
"I meant I'd do the press conference."  
  
Okay. Sure. He'll do the press conference. Right.  
  
What the hell did he just say?  
  
"Sir?" She blinked to clear her head. It had been a long night and she just wasn't focusing. Maybe he wouldn't get too irritated to have to tell her again.  
  
"I'm doing the press conference."  
  
Okay. Well, she'd heard him right the first time.  
  
By now everyone except Abbey was staring at him, not that he could tell, and C.J. saw the scene from far away, as if she were the character in a play and the protagonist had just announced he was going to meet the villain face-to-face, without weapons, without armor, without his army behind him.  
  
It took almost two minutes this time before she found her breath. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
All right. That was probably insubordinate. That was definitely insubordinate. But she couldn't take it back now. And it fairly well expressed her attitude.  
  
But the President didn't get angry at all. He must have expected some similar response. "I need you to set up a press conference for this afternoon. I'm going to make a statement and take some questions."  
  
Sure. No problem. After that we'll jog around LaFayette Park and shoot a few hoops.  
  
"And I'll need your help," he added. 


	9. Chapter Nine CJ Cregg

POV: C.J. Spoilers: Nothing specific, but any information about Qumar probably gives away minor things for Season Four. Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not ours, unfortunately.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 9/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
The announcement had been made. Presidential Press Conference, 6:00 p.m. That in itself would be enough to bring the masses of reporters. A conference conducted personally by the President of the United States, by THIS President, always proved lively and entertaining.  
  
C.J. hoped this one was neither.  
  
She stood outside the Residence, staring out across the bright landscape of the city, thankful the snow was deep enough to linger several more days, long enough to keep the pressroom only partially full. They needed all the favors they could get, however little.  
  
Where the hell was everybody, anyway? She had apparently been left on her own to arrange this whole thing - this whole crazy thing. No Leo, no Toby, no Josh. She hadn't even seen Will Bailey. He was probably somewhere sleeping off his whirlwind tenure with the Bartlet White House. Surely someone was searching the others out and dragging their asses back here. Surely she wasn't the last line of defense.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Although she knew that, if called upon, she would throw herself on the grenade for Josiah Bartlet, she nevertheless almost choked in relief at the sight of Leo McGarry walking toward her. Finally, here was someone who could present logic, who could talk some sense into the President, who could diffuse that very grenade waiting to explode in her pressroom. But to her deep and shocked dismay, he offered no such salvation.  
  
"C.J.," he said, shaking his head at her request, "I've tried. Don't you think I've gone there again and again? He's determined to do this."  
  
"Leo!" she exclaimed with total incredulity. "Have you lost your mind, too? This is insane! He can't even get out of bed on his own. He can't SEE, for Pete's sake."  
  
The chief of staff merely nodded his agreement.  
  
She waved a wild hand around vaguely. "He could fall off the stage. He could pass out in front of the entire press corps. He could run into the wall - "  
  
"He could throw up all over the podium," Leo added helpfully.  
  
C.J. stopped, horrified. "Well, gee, thanks. There's a new possibility I'll be thinking about all day now."  
  
"Knowledge is power," he assured her.  
  
The frustration bubbled up in her. "How can you take this so lightly, Leo? Isn't there a sane person in this building?"  
  
Now he sighed and took her arm, pulling her away from the Residence door. "I'm not taking this lightly. I know what can happen. HE knows what can happen."  
  
"Then why - "  
  
"We'll do what we have to do, C.J. Just as he is doing what he has to do."  
  
"He doesn't have to - "  
  
"Yes," he said solemnly, holding her eyes with his. "Yes, he does. For himself, he does."  
  
And then she realized. Yes, this was for the country - to show them their President was in command, strong. But it was also for Jed Bartlet - to show himself the same thing. And regardless of what they felt, despite any assurances they could give him, he would not be satisfied unless he proved to himself that he could do it. Logic and common sense be damned.  
  
"What if - " She almost couldn't voice it. "What if he - Leo, he could collapse. That would kill him. That would only makes things worse - "  
  
"Make what worse?"  
  
They both turned abruptly as the Residence door swung open. She knew Leo's face mirrored her own at the sight of Josiah Bartlet, left arm braced hard on the door frame, right hand clasping Charlie Young's shoulder. He had shrugged a robe on over his T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and she figured Abbey had managed to tame his hair to look only moderately wild. Although his cheeks remained pink, he wasn't sweating anymore. In face, he actually smiled at them, and she felt a thrill of excitement that he might be able to see, until she realized Charlie had whispered their names in his ear.  
  
"Mister President!" she acknowledged as calmly as she could, noting that all three of his daughters and his granddaughter watched in various poses of anxiety from inside the room.  
  
Abbey stood directly behind him, poised to catch him when - if, she forced herself to amend - he fell. But he stubbornly remained on his feet.  
  
"Make what worse?" he repeated.  
  
"Uh, well, see - " Smooth, C.J.  
  
But he waved her off, probably knowing the answer himself and choosing not to go there. "You ready?" he asked instead.  
  
Hell no. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Okay then. Let's rock and roll." Pushing away from the wall, he began a disturbingly slow pace down the hall, trusting Charlie to guide him as well as lend him physical strength. C.J. forced herself to suppress her own impulses to reach out as he limped heavily on his right leg, knowing he wouldn't accept her gesture anyway. The reality of his impairment struck her hard then. How many times had she, long legs not withstanding, struggled to keep up with his brisk strides? No, this was hard to watch.  
  
With so few personnel actually in the building, they took the inside route, arriving a good ten minutes later in the press room, normally only a minute or two from the Residence. At the door, the President stopped and laid a hand on Charlie's arm.  
  
Catching his breath, he said, "Okay, C.J., here's - what I need."  
  
You need some oxygen, she observed silently. And a little common sense. But she answered, "Sir?"  
  
"I'm gonna walk into the pressroom unaided and step up to the podium. That's the easy part." An ironic grin crossed his face as he drew in another labored breath. "Then I'm gonna make a statement and take some questions."  
  
All while somehow managing not to fall on your face. "Yes, sir. How can I help?"  
  
He smiled and she hoped he could feel her concern, as well as her support, even if she still thought he was crazy. "I need coaching."  
  
"For who to call on?"  
  
"I'll know who to call on. I need to know who sits where so I can make sure I've got the right person."  
  
Sure, that's easy. No problem. We'll just whip through that in a couple of minutes.  
  
"Mister President," she said carefully, "I need to ask you something a little - delicate."  
  
He pursed his lips momentarily before prompting her to continue.  
  
"Can you see enough to tell if a hand goes up?" She felt Leo tense next to her, but it was something she had to know to be able to help.  
  
The President's jaw pumped once before he answered, but his voice reflected no anger. "Don't know," he admitted finally. "Let's try it."  
  
Immediately, C.J. motioned for Charlie. "Take Sandy's place. She'll be here for sure."  
  
The young man hesitated to leave the President on his own, but Bartlet waved him away. "Go."  
  
"Leo, take Steve's spot."  
  
The chief of staff moved into position. She placed the three daughters who had followed and directed Abbey into Danny Concanon's seat. Now no one stood with the President. He was on his own - just as he would be in a few short hours.  
  
"All right, sir, " she began. If they were really doing this, they would do it right. "Two paces to the elevated portion of the stage, step up, then you have about three more paces to the podium."  
  
He nodded and looked down, hesitantly easing into the room, hands forced to his sides. His left foot hit the step and he stumbled, catching himself enough to break the fall. Every person in the room lunged forward, but he raised a hand to warn them off.  
  
"I'm okay. Stay where you are."  
  
Slowly, he regained his feet and moved to the podium, gripping it so hard that his knuckles turned white. Dear Lord, thought C.J., this will never work. Who are we fooling?  
  
By now, the President was sweating again, the perspiration beading on his forehead and upper lip.  
  
"Jed?" Abbey asked quietly, but everyone in the room heard the fear in her voice.  
  
"I'm fine," he insisted. "Let's go."  
  
C.J. knew the layout in her head, had looked out over the group so many times she could have called on them with her eyes closed - which was basically what the President was about to do. But he didn't have the same experience. She walked him through the seating chart, naming the reporter and the specific seat, along with the general direction, using a system that laid out the room like a horizontal Hollywood Squares. Reporters were clustered in the upper right, or center right, or bottom left, and so forth. Then, she had the assembled group take turns asking questions as the President did his best to call the name of the represented reporter. It turned out he could distinguish a hand raised, if the movement was deliberate enough. They'd have to take their chances on that.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
"Yes, Sandy?" he identified confidently.  
  
"I'm Steve," Charlie corrected.  
  
Bartlet frowned. "I distinctly heard C.J. make you Sandy," he argued.  
  
"Yes, sir," C.J. answered, feeling a little guilty. "But he's moved to Steve's spot now. Forget the voice - learn the position."  
  
Again and again they tossed out questions. Again and again he answered, sometimes targeting exactly and sometimes missing by a long shot.  
  
"Let's try it again," he'd insist, wiping at his forehead and trying vainly to still the shaking in his arms.  
  
As they went on, she knew everyone could hear the fatigue pushing down on him, lowering his tone, roughening his voice. When he began swaying visibly, Abbey abandoned her role and rushed to the front, grasping his arm. Charlie and Leo joined her almost immediately, and the three of them managed to hold him upright until Ron stepped in.  
  
"That's enough," she commanded, her tone allowing no argument.  
  
"I'm - all right," Bartlet mumbled. Somehow, the words didn't ring true. Maybe it was because it was perfectly clear that, if not for the agent's firm grip, the President would be on the floor at that moment.  
  
"Mister President, let's call this off until another time," Leo suggested, and C.J. wanted to clap. He hadn't lost his sanity after all - or at least he had retrieved it somehow.  
  
"No." One word. Final call from the man who had all final calls. "I've got it now. Just - get me back upstairs for a little while."  
  
Obediently, Ron and Charlie helped him back to the Residence, their strange entourage trailing behind. When they all piled into the room, and Abbey slipped off his robe, C.J. noted the sweat drenching the front and back of his T-shirt. His cheeks had flushed deeper red.  
  
At least, C.J. thought gratefully, he wasn't throwing up anymore.  
  
"Abbey - " he called weakly.  
  
The First Lady didn't even hesitate as she swung the Adams vase in front of him just in time.  
  
Well, nevermind.  
  
"Jed this is ridiculous - " she began.  
  
You go girl, C.J. cheered silently. You tell him how crazy this is. You talk him out of it. She was convinced Abigail Bartlet was the only one now who could do it.  
  
But even her strong presence wasn't enough this time. "It's okay," the President said, wiping his face with the cool cloth Leo handed him. "Give me whatever it takes not to do that out there." He leaned back on the pillows, stretching out. "And if you can get the fever down more, that would be helpful, too."  
  
Well, gee, C.J. thought. Now you tell us. We've just been pissing around all this time. She couldn't help it. Sarcasm was her best coping tactic. Wouldn't have mattered anyway. It was obvious to them all. This was going to happen.  
  
So there he stood, twelve hours later, poised at the closed entrance to the pressroom. She pictured him behind the door, just as she had left him moments before. Somehow he - or someone - had managed to comb his hair into relative neatness and had given him a fresh shave. The navy suit provided a mask of normality, and only the faint flush of his cheeks betrayed any hint of a problem. But he hadn't walked in, hadn't negotiated the rostrum, hadn't tried to call on people he couldn't see. C.J. wasn't ready to breathe again just yet.  
  
Leo nodded to her from the wings. Fingers crossed, she stepped forward and made the announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."  
  
They stood as one, and she took pride in noting that, for most of them, the respect was not merely for the office; it included the man, himself. She wondered if that would remain true when he was finished.  
  
Then the door opened and Josiah Bartlet walked through, his gait not as brisk as usual, but not obviously impaired. Somehow he had mastered the limp, at least for that short distance. Okay. Steady. Pace. Pace. Step up. Okay. Three more paces.  
  
And he was at the podium, hands gripping it solidly, but not desperately. He gave every appearance of calm assuredness, of total control. He smiled at them, and, had she not known better, she would have sworn he made eye contact with several.  
  
"I have a brief statement," he began and grinned a little wider at the few fond chuckles scattered across the room. "Brief" was a relative term for this President. "Then, I'll take questions."  
  
Cameras flashed. Again, he glanced around, and C.J. wondered exactly what he was seeing, if it was enough to guide him at least to an area of the room.  
  
"First, let me congratulate you for conquering Mother Nature and making it here. We may be poor in number tonight, but I see we are rich in experience."  
  
Although she tried not to, she flinched at his choice of words, but the crowd nodded in acknowledgement as he continued.  
  
"Second, let me express my pleasure with yesterday's festivities. Inauguration Day is a unique event for our country - indeed for the world, the celebration of the concrete validity of our Constitution. It demonstrates that it works. Every four years - " Here he grinned. " - or eight, America selects one of its own to lead. Not because he - or she - is the richest, or the smartest, or the most honest, or the most attractive. But because his fellow citizens have trusted that person - with advice and with balances - to make decisions for the country, and ultimately for the world. I am deeply honored to be given that trust again."  
  
Well, maybe not the richest, but this time, C.J. reflected, the country had come pretty darn close in choosing the smartest and most honest. And, she allowed, with just a touch of fond embarrassment as she lingered on his even features, the most attractive, as well.  
  
"Sometimes a little pomp and ceremony is good to remind us of the importance of our responsibility. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as my family and I did." He shifted slightly, not quite wiping at his brow - not quite. That non-gesture brought her acutely back to alertness.  
  
"Okay. Now I'll take a few questions."  
  
Here we go. Breathe now, she told herself, because you might not get a chance later.  
  
As usual, everyone's hands shot up. Good. That meant he could call on just about anyone and get it right. Without hesitation, he pointed to the mid-center. "Sandy?"  
  
Easy one. Good start.  
  
"Mister President, how do you answer the accusations from the Tallahassee Democrat that you were intoxicated at the last Inaugural Ball? Are they true?"  
  
Leave it to Sandy to cut to the chase. She had, after all, asked the re- election question at another tough press conference. C.J. wondered if the President went to her again for that very reason.  
  
Indeed, he smiled indulgently as if he had anticipated that response. "Well, first I'd say that, considering the content of that article, I'm disappointed in the paper's name. It sounds more like it's the Tallahassee Republican to me."  
  
This drew a laugh - as intended. Then he sobered.  
  
"No, Sandy, that is not true. I'll admit to many vices. My wife would be happy to verify them, I'm sure." More light chuckles, here. "Indeed, I think the entire country is well aware of my shortcomings. But being intoxicated is not one of them. As a matter of fact, I had nothing stronger than half a glass of wine last night."  
  
He was so sincere, C.J. didn't figure anyone could doubt him. And, of course, as Abbey had told her once, the truth will do it almost every time.  
  
Follow-up hands rose. Okay. Second shot.  
  
"Steve," he recognized, front center. Right on target.  
  
"Mister President, why then did the paper report that you needed help leaving the room?"  
  
"Well, I don't know for sure, Steve," he answered smoothly without even a second's hesitation. "I left with my wife and we had our arms around each other, but that was for an entirely different reason."  
  
More laughter. C.J. chanced a breath.  
  
"Are you saying that there was nothing at all out of the ordinary last night, Mister President? That the paper simply made up a story?"  
  
This question came out of turn, without recognition to speak. A breach of protocol, but said, nevertheless. Impossible to ignore it. C.J. froze as Bartlet remained silent. Denise Crowell was new, had only been a White House correspondent a month. C.J. didn't remember the President ever having even spoken to her before. The silence stretched on.  
  
Oh God. He doesn't have any idea who she is. Even if he could see her, he probably -  
  
"No, Denise," he answered finally, and C.J. seriously considered fainting right there on the spot.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"No, I'm not saying there was nothing unusual. We were tired. It had been a very long day, I'm sure you'll all acknowledge." He smiled that charming Bartlet smile. "My wife and I simply wanted to go to bed."  
  
C.J. wasn't sure he saw the grins that crept onto most faces, but he probably heard the soft snorts. They knew their First Couple. To her credit, Denise blushed.  
  
But Bartlet wasn't finished. "Plus, I've had a minor ear infection and Abbey knew if I didn't get a good night's sleep, she'd have to deal with a grouchy husband today."  
  
"Are you feeling all right, now, sir?" Denise's tone indicated more personal concern than probing suspicion.  
  
"Much better, thanks. It's about gone now." This casual comment, so carefully placed and so convincingly delivered, barely registered a nod. Maybe they were going to make it, after all. C.J. risked another breath.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Aw, hell. As the familiar voice called out in its usual quiet, but sure manner, she re-evaluated her optimism. Maybe not.  
  
"Yes, Danny?" At least he didn't have to guess who that was.  
  
"Can you comment, sir, on reports by AP that increased troop movement at the Qumari border is aimed toward provoking Israel - and as a result, the U.S. - into war?"  
  
Damn it! She should have seen this coming. This conference was just supposed to quell the rumors from last night. But Danny Concanon could not have cared less if Jed Bartlet drank at the Inaugural Ball. What he could do, however, was sniff out a real story, and she had dropped the President right in the middle of it.  
  
She wanted to leap in front of her boss, to shield him, figuratively and maybe even literally, with her body, to protect him from this 98-mile-an- hour fastball. But how could she do that without making things even worse? How could she get him out of there now?  
  
But Josiah Bartlet didn't get where he was without some skills himself. Smoothly, he slipped on his catcher's mitt, nodded toward the reporter, whom he knew quite well, and caught the pitch.  
  
"Yeah. You're right, Danny. There is troop movement along the border. Increase up to thirty percent, which is significant."  
  
Pens scribbled furiously across the room. Any notion of the President's health scattered beneath flowing ink. C.J. couldn't afford to breath anymore.  
  
"We don't know what the Qumaris hope to accomplish with this, but if it is a threat to our allies, we will see it as a threat to us."  
  
Good answer. Strong tone. Okay, let's move on -  
  
"So we would support Israel under a Qumari attack?"  
  
Bartlet looked directly at Danny. "Israel is an ally. We give them our political support. I doubt they need material support, but if they asked for even that, yes, we would give it."  
  
Now he looked cross the crowd, eyes snapping despite the impairment. C.J. felt a chill run up her spine. "There is terrorist activity going on in this world. We will not allow it to become what rules us. We will not allow it to control our lives."  
  
Danny watched him, waited until he finished before probing more. "Are you saying," he asked slowly, "that Qumar is responsible for terrorist activity, Mister President?"  
  
The President straightened, but didn't seem surprised at all by the question. "I am saying," he returned in just the same, measured manner, "that we will support ourselves and our friends against terrorist activity. If Qumar chooses to engage in such inhumane and dishonorable tactics, they can expect a response from the United States."  
  
Dear God. Did he just announce we would use force against Qumar? She glanced over at Leo, but the chief of staff kept his expression completely and frustratingly blank.  
  
"Mister President!" They erupted immediately. The loudest voice came from mid-left. Kerri Kingston. Atlanta Constitution. C.J. shook off her shock over the bold statement as she realized the President's face had slackened a bit. Oh hell. He had lost it, had lost the name. Come on, she urged silently, trying to shove the information to him through osmosis, or telepathy, or whatever worked.  
  
You know this one. Come on.  
  
Then she realized in horror that maybe it wasn't the name at all. A fine sheen of perspiration had appeared on his brow. And did he seem paler? Dear Lord, please don't let this happen. Please, C.J. pleaded.  
  
One beat. Two. C.J. felt her legs try to move, to salvage the situation, to take over. She saw the concentration on the President's face. In another minute everything would collapse and -  
  
"Yes, Kim?"  
  
"Kerri, sir," the reporter corrected. C.J. searched her face for suspicion, but only a fond smile was evident.  
  
Bartlet gave her an apologetic grin. "Kerri, right. I'm sorry."  
  
She nodded, all-forgiving. "That's okay, Mister President."  
  
C.J. exhaled. For once, one of the few things Jed Bartlet did poorly - remembering names - had come in handy. C.J. hoped she was the only one who saw him grip the podium a little tighter. And maybe no one noticed that he seemed to sway just slightly. Come on. Just a few more minutes.  
  
"Does that mean we might be sending troops against Qumar?"  
  
"We don't take sending our men and women into hostile areas lightly, Kerri. You can be assured it would be the last choice we have to protect Americans, as well as other innocent citizens - even innocent Qumari. But we won't be bullied and we won't allow our friends to be bullied. And we won't allow people who have no ability to defend themselves to be bullied." After a quick breath, which C.J. hoped no one saw as shaky, he added, "But right now all we are looking at is some troop movements. If there is any action - or even a possibility of action - you'll be the first to know."  
  
A few smiles dotted their faces, and he held up a hand, belaying any subsequent questions. "Okay. Thank you for coming today despite the weather." His smiled turned into that boyish grin and C.J. knew some typical Bartlet comment was coming. The sheer predictability of it made her feel better.  
  
"You know, in New Hampshire we'd refer this as a hard frost."  
  
Perfect. That lighter comment eased the serious ideas that had weighted the air. As a parting wish, he added, "But I hope you all have a special someone you can share a nice cozy fire with." He grinned winningly. "Mine's waiting for me, so I'll bid you good night."  
  
A final round of laughter and returned wishes followed him out. C.J. moved toward the stage, smoothly allowing her shoulder to serve as a brace as he passed. To the rest of the room, it looked like an affectionate pat. To him, it was a valuable grip.  
  
"That's a wrap, guys," she announced quickly, cutting off any more issues. Those had been quite enough, thank you.  
  
She slipped out the door just behind the President, closing it immediately in a firm statement to Danny Concanon's expectant presence. She'd deal with him later.  
  
They had done it. They had actually done it. HE had done it.  
  
And after it was all said and done, after the doubts, after the anxiety, she admitted to herself she wasn't totally surprised. Maybe she would write a book one day, not necessarily about her experiences in Washington, but about the man, himself, about this extraordinary human being who had given so much of himself for his country. And this particular little event would merit an entire chapter in itself.  
  
Grinning almost giddily, she strode down the hallway, eager to catch up with the man of the hour and congratulate him. The crowd was just ahead, black suits flanking their charge as his slow, limping pace moved them farther away from the jackals. He could relax, now, she thought. They had bought some time, and the glory of the moment, at least, could carry them for a few hours.  
  
C.J. reached them just in time to watch the President of the United States collapse into the arms of his secret service agent and body man. 


	10. Chapter Ten CJ Cregg

POV: C.J. Cregg Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not ours, infortunately.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 10/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
He had done it. Somehow, he had done it.  
  
But for C.J. Cregg that extraordinary accomplishment suddenly lost some of its importance with the heart-stopping scene that played out before her. She clutched at her throat as she watched Jed Bartlet's legs buckle and his body slump toward the floor. But his companions were quick, quick enough to catch him and perceptive enough to know they couldn't stop right there in the middle of the hallway. Slinging one of the President's arms around his shoulders and letting Charlie do the same on the other side, Ron Butterfield hauled his boss up and almost raced toward the Residence.  
  
C.J. twisted around to make sure no one else had witnessed the act, gathered herself and sprinted after them. This retreat took only one-fifth the time of the earlier procession, possibly because the President didn't seem to be contributing at all. With both arms across the strong shoulders of Ron and Charlie, he made the trip solely as a passenger.  
  
Her heart pounded in her ears, panic wrestling with what little calm she had mustered in the pressroom. Finding him sprawled out on the Oval Office carpet had been bad enough, but actually seeing him collapse before her eyes was a sight she would not soon forget - would not ever forget.  
  
The bedroom door burst open as they arrived, and C.J. was not at all surprised to see Abbey meet them, hands already extended, loosening his tie, opening his collar, speaking softly, reassuringly to him. Not for the first time, the press secretary felt like an intruder on the private moment. But one look at the President told her he probably wasn't even aware of his wife's ministrations.  
  
As Ron and Charlie eased him into the closest chair, she tried to assess his condition. Not very good, her brain determined as she saw the shivers course through his body, watched the perspiration run down his face, heard the low groans in his throat.  
  
She had no idea how he had done it. How he had stood before those reporters and calmly answered their questions, looking straight at the appropriate speaker, bantering with his usual wit to give the indication of total and complete control. It had obviously taken every ounce of strength and will he possessed, because she saw now that he was utterly spent.  
  
Weakly, he tried to brush away his wife's hand. "I'm - okay," he mumbled.  
  
"Sure you are," she returned gently, combing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. The tenderness and pain in her eyes tore at C.J., and she could see the same reaction on each of the faces around her - even Ron Butterfield's, just a little.  
  
Swallowing whatever fears she must have been feeling, Abbey turned briskly to whoever stood closest. "Get Admiral Hackett."  
  
"Yes, m'am." It was Charlie who responded, moving before she had even completed her order.  
  
Now she turned back to her husband, easing off his coat and tie, propping his feet on a low table and removing his shoes. She had unbuttoned his shirt most of the way down and C.J. figured she probably stopped herself from undressing him completely only because of their audience. Another intimate moment with way too many observers.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
The fearful question came from across the room, spoken by Liz Weston, but silently echoed by Ellie. C.J. didn't see Annie or Zoey and vaguely wondered where they were. Maybe her mother felt this was all too heavy for a fifteen year old. Or maybe Abbey Bartlet knew the President preferred that his granddaughter not see him in this condition and Zoey drew the chaperone straw.  
  
The First Lady turned, so focused on him that she seemed to have forgotten they were there. "It's okay," she told them, then emphasized, "It is."  
  
They didn't respond verbally, merely watched her with questioning eyes that looked all too much like their father's eyes.  
  
She lifted her chin in a gesture of confidence. "Really."  
  
"Mom?" Ellie asked and her tone demanded the truth. She would know; she had the medical training to recognize it.  
  
Now Abbey smiled faintly. "Really." She glanced back at her husband, who had leaned against the chair, eyes closed, shaking finally subsiding. "Really," she mumbled, and C.J. was almost certain she heard a tenderly muttered, "Jackass," in there, too.  
  
If they still had their doubts, they at least accepted their mother's answer for the moment. Liz sank onto the sofa; Ellie chose to remain standing by the window.  
  
Charlie returned with Hackett, who didn't look so hot himself, even though Leo noted aloud that he seemed better. The Admiral kneeled by the President's chair - not too closely - and peered up at him. Abbey's hand automatically moved to the other doctor's forehead, prompting a smile that was part gratitude, part irritation.  
  
"Ninety-eight point six," he assured her. "But I think I'll avoid running in any marathons any time soon."  
  
She nodded and they turned their attention to their mutual patient - the leader of the free world. He remained still, too still, with his hands hanging limply over the chair arms and his head pressed against the back.  
  
"I saw the press conference," Hackett remarked as Abbey eased the thermometer into the President's good ear. "I don't know how he did it. I absolutely do not know." The clear flavor of awe mingled with a lingering taste of disbelief in the doctor's tone.  
  
The First Lady had no response, but C.J. saw - even through the worry and fear - a spark of pride in her eyes. It was very similar to the pride in her own expression.  
  
After a few seconds, the instrument beeped, and C.J. held her breath until the First Lady announced the reading.  
  
"One-hundred point seven. Up from a couple of hours ago."  
  
Probably to be expected, though, wasn't it? He'd taxed his body pretty hard there for a good while.  
  
"Jed?" She laid her hand on his cheek, turned his face toward her. "Honey?"  
  
Even though she had heard Abbey call the President any number of nicknames, some of them not particularly endearing, C.J. always felt a little awkward at the underlying intimacy of those moments. To Abbey, he was not the President of the United States. He was Jed - her Jed. Her husband. Her lover. The father of her children. Her best friend.  
  
But she couldn't bring herself to look away when his eyes opened and he looked up at this person who was the same for him. His wife. His lover. The mother of his children. His best friend. She didn't know how well he could see, but his expression clearly showed he knew who stood before him.  
  
"Abbey," he whispered.  
  
She bent to kiss him, a soft brush of their lips and again C.J. chided herself for being witness to this time that should be private. But she was one of seven intruders in the room, so she figured her presence didn't make much difference.  
  
"You did it, Babe," Abbey told him, the pride giving her voice special warmth. "It's okay."  
  
He laughed, more of a heavy exhalation, really, and closed his eyes again. "Yeah."  
  
"Yeah," she agreed.  
  
The room lingered in silence as all those who had experienced the surrealism of the past twenty hours finally had a chance to reflect on what had just happened. C.J. still wasn't quite sure it wouldn't turn out to be a dream - or a nightmare.  
  
"How about we get you back into bed, now?" Abbey suggested to the President, running a hand down his arm in a soft caress.  
  
Rallying for a brief spark of the familiar Jed Bartlet, he quipped, "Sure, Hot Pants, but get rid of all these voyeurs first, okay?"  
  
C.J. smirked and was glad Annie hadn't heard that, judging from the reddened faces of the Bartlet daughters. The others seemed to take this as a good sign, if the President was up to jokes again.  
  
"Where's my ride?" he asked, gathering strength either from the reaction of his audience or from the brief respite in the chair.  
  
Charlie and Ron stepped closer to lend their support as he reached up and grabbed each man's shoulder, resuming his limping gait the few steps to the bed. Easing onto it with a sigh, he waved his hand dismissively around the room.  
  
"All right. Everybody out. I need my beauty sleep if we're gonna get back on track tomorrow."  
  
She saw Leo lift a brow at that comment, but no one chose to respond. They'd just see what tomorrow brought. For now, if the President was volunteering to rest, they'd count themselves lucky and be thankful for small favors. One by one, they trickled out, the girls, Charlie, Ron, Hackett, and Leo, but as she moved toward the door, he called to her.  
  
"C.J.?"  
  
Surprised, she turned. "Sir?"  
  
"Stay."  
  
"Yes, sir." Not that she would refuse him, but she wondered why he had picked her out. Also she wondered how he had picked her out. "Mister President?"  
  
He sat on the edge of the bed, lifting his arms so Abbey could help him shrug out of his shirt. C.J. shifted her eyes away. There was something not quite decent about seeing your President half-dressed - even if he did look pretty darn good half-dressed - maybe BECAUSE he looked pretty darn good half-dressed.  
  
"Yeah," he answered, breathing a little harder at the exertions.  
  
By now, Abbey had slipped off his pants, leaving him only in his boxers, and helped him slide under the covers. Neither she nor the President seemed to regard that as anything of consequence, so C.J. tried to play it as nonchalantly as possible, but it wasn't everyday you got to see your President in his underwear. Again - not that she couldn't appreciate the opportunity.  
  
He leaned back against the pillows and motioned her closer. She wished he could see her face, could read the awe and admiration in her eyes. She'd just have to let her voice do it for her.  
  
"I just want to say, that was the most incredible - well, you were so unbelievably amazing - I just - I don't know how you - "  
  
A genuine chuckle shook his chest. "Claudia Jean, are you trying to get a new job as one of my speechwriters?"  
  
Grinning, she leaned forward and took the liberty of placing a fond kiss against his cheek, noting the warmth radiating from his skin. "You're really something, Mister President," she said, almost laughing at the astonishment on his face.  
  
How could he not know that? How could he not be impressed even with himself after what he did tonight? But the surprise was genuine, part of what made him who he was. He truly did not feel he had done anything extraordinary - which made him all the more extraordinary.  
  
She looked at Abbey and almost lost it when she saw the tears in her friend's eyes. Damn. Okay, swallow. Lips pressed tight, she allowed her own eyes to reflect the mutual pride and affection before stepping away and moving out of the intimacy of their presence.  
  
"Mister President." Whatever the President might have said to her was lost in the return of Leo McGarry, who stopped several feet away, apparently aware himself of an invisible field around the First Couple.  
  
"Leo," Bartlet greeted, voice noticeably stronger.  
  
"I've just had an interesting conversation with Fitzwallace," the chief of staff reported.  
  
C.J. saw the President flinch.  
  
"Is he pissed?"  
  
Leo lifted a brow. "Nah. He's deliriously happy with you right now."  
  
"That bad?" Bartlet sighed. "What about Nancy?"  
  
"Ah. Now Nancy, on the other hand, wants to run you for president - of Qumar."  
  
C.J. wasn't completely following the conversation, but it was easy to tell her own alarm over the President's comments at the press conference was echoed by no less than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Advisor. Not bad company.  
  
"Really?" Genuine surprise lifted Bartlet's tone.  
  
Now Leo smiled and shrugged. "No. She agrees with you. Put it out there for them. It's in their court now."  
  
The President nodded as if he had anticipated that response. "What have we heard from the Saudi ambassador?"  
  
C.J. shifted awkwardly, feeling a little like an interloper, but no one had asked her to leave and she figured this would end up in her pressroom eventually, anyway.  
  
"Nothing yet," Leo told him. "But he hasn't had time to establish communications."  
  
Brow raised, Bartlet asked, "How long has it been?"  
  
"Almost fifteen hours."  
  
The President's jaw dropped. "Fifteen hours and he can't get an email through? He could have sent it by carrier pigeon in that amount of time!"  
  
"Maybe AOL's down," Leo suggested.  
  
The President pursed his lips. "Cheeky," he observed.  
  
"Yes, sir." Now Leo shifted and offered a little consolation of information. "Fitz thinks we'll know something within the next three hours."  
  
"Any feel for it?"  
  
Leo's expression didn't change, but his voice grew guarded, a clear message in it. "Let's just wait on that, sir."  
  
Bartlet hesitated, obviously wanting to push it, but forcing himself to acquiesce to his chief of staff's advice. "Okay."  
  
C.J. found herself grinning at the exchange, so typical of the two men that she could almost believe things were just the same as they always had been. She caught the same expression on Abbey's face for just a moment before the First Lady turned abruptly away.  
  
"I'm going to check on Admiral Hackett, " she announced tightly, throwing the words over her shoulder. "Don't give C.J. and Leo a hard time."  
  
The President raised his hands innocently. "Me?"  
  
But Abbey was gone already, an air of anxiousness following her hasty exit.  
  
"Excuse me, Mister President, Leo," C.J. said, receiving nods of dismissal from both. They were already deep into conversation by the time she reached the door.  
  
With long strides she caught up with Abbey in the hallway. "Mrs. Bartlet?" She remained formal for the secret service listening. The First Lady paused, glancing back.  
  
"Yeah?" Her upbeat tone sounded forced, strained.  
  
The press secretary lowered her voice, tried to color it with the support and encouragement she hoped to convey. "Abbey?  
  
The First Lady turned, and the sheer pain and fear in her eyes drew C.J. closer. Without a word, she pushed through the nearest door and pulled Abbey with her. Only the outside security lights provided any illumination. C.J. wasn't even sure what room it was, but it didn't matter.  
  
"Abbey?" she said again, knowing she was asking many things with that one word.  
  
Even in the dark, she saw the tears glistening in the older woman's eyes. After a moment, Abbey spoke, softly, haltingly.  
  
"It's why I didn't want him to run again," she confessed, the emotion barely in check, agitating just beneath the surface. "It's why - I didn't want - I didn't want to have to share him for the last - " With a shuddering breath, she moved toward the window, unable to look at anyone, even in the dark. "I'm not ready to lose him yet, C.J."  
  
Sick. She felt absolutely sick. What could she say to this woman who had never shown one hint of vulnerability, who had always seemed stronger than anyone she had ever met? She had not collapsed into tears, had not beaten her fists against the wall in frustration. But the quietly anguished whisper revealed so much pain that C.J. couldn't breathe for a moment.  
  
She had always known the President and Abbey were very deeply in love, had seen their need to touch each other, to be physically close, had heard their playful, sexy banter, had even witnessed hard, emotional arguments that nevertheless conveyed the far-reaching feelings they shared. But until now she had not looked straight into Abbey Bartlet's soul. There it was, open to her, open and bleeding. And it was easy to see directly into the center, to see what precious treasure she cradled there.  
  
Jed.  
  
But as C.J. struggled to formulate some comforting words, some encouraging gesture, the First Lady straightened and turned to her, the cool mask back in place. "I'm sorry, C.J.," she offered with a rueful smile. "I guess I'm just - tired."  
  
"Abbey, I - "  
  
That talented hand went up, a surgeon's hand. "No. Don't. Although I appreciate the gesture." She laughed, a short, humorless sound. "But when all this is over - if it's ever over - we'll go get drunk together again, okay?"  
  
C.J. knew when to stop. This was not the time to probe the First Lady's psyche. She nodded, offering her own sympathetic smile. "Okay."  
  
She watched Abigail Bartlet square up and walk from the room, dignified even in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and she took a moment to wonder what Jed Bartlet would have been without her. Smart? Definitely. Compassionate? Probably. Great? Hard to say. She was glad he never had to find out.  
  
Running a weary hand across her eyes, she trudged down to her office. After the President's comments, there would certainly be something coming. Wasn't there always? She chuckled to herself, since no one else was with her anymore. Wasn't there always?  
"Crews working throughout the day and into the night have gotten the Beltway reopened. Area business owners are gradually making their way back to work, but for all practical purposes, we'd have to say that the District is still shut down - "  
  
C.J. leaned over her propped legs and clicked her remote from the local station to CNN, just catching the end of the President's press conference. She watched for a moment, shaking her head at the incredulity of the whole situation. The coverage had passed with little or no attention to any wild allegations of the President's activities at the Inaugural Ball. Apparently, the American public didn't believe for one minute that Jed Bartlet would be drunk. Or they didn't care if he took the liberty to celebrate such a glorious day. But more likely, the clear message he sent to Qumar had wiped any interest in his personal actions off the monitors. Grateful for the success of the conference, she still couldn't help wishing - just a little - that the reporters could know just how magnificent he had been. Ironically, their ignorance would have to remain silent proof of the achievement.  
  
They had dodged a bullet tonight, but the posse would return with more ammunition and then what would they do?  
  
"What the hell is going on?"  
  
She looked up at the abrupt question. In her door, faces red, mouths open, eyes wide, clothes in disarray, stood Toby Ziegler and Josh Lyman.  
  
"Hey, boys," she greeted easily. As if she hadn't already had enough entertainment for one night. 


	11. Chapter Eleven Abbey

POV: Abbey Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not ours.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 11/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Abbey Bartlet sat by the bed, her eyes running across the dark, rich wood, smooth and aged, classic in its lines. It was an appropriate style for the room. When they moved into the Residence, she had wanted to compliment the historical architecture of the house and satisfy Jed's preference for wood and elegant furniture at the same time. It suited her tastes, too, much more than the modernistic garishness of the pieces chosen by some of their recent predecessors. The house that belonged to America deserved as much.  
  
But at the moment she could not have cared less about one stick of furniture in that room, would not have minded if the whole thing had been outfitted in art deco. The only thing that mattered one bit to her was the man lying in the middle of that classic elegance.  
  
She shifted her gaze from his surroundings to him, taking in each detail, trying to temper the anxious fear of a wife with the measured calm of a physician. It wasn't working.  
  
At least he had stopped shaking. He looked peaceful now, finally, after the chaos of the day, after the unbelievably stupid - and courageous - act of the evening. Although she had not verbally responded to Hackett's impressed observation, she agreed. How on earth had Jed done what he did? How did he stay on his feet even, much less carry out - with convincing aplomb - the press conference?  
  
She watched him sleep. The exhaustion, at least, had forced him into an unconsciousness that was finally unbroken by twists or turns or moans. He lay completely still, almost disturbingly still, his face pale, drained of its flush by a double dose of Advil. And her last ear check showed visible improvement. She prayed it was enough. They needed some progress. If he could just stay quiet and still long enough to keep the fever down, she had hope that his vision would improve, as well.  
  
If it really was Uhthoff's Phenomenon. If the episode was one brought on by the fever. If it wasn't a real relapse. If it wasn't optical neuritis. If -  
  
So many ifs. Too many ifs. She was tired of that, tired of wondering if - or when - this would be the one that started the spiral into the next stage.  
  
His breathing had grown even and steady. In the dim light she studied his face, the face she knew so well, the face that could still make her heart pound with excitement just to see him smile at her, or give her that veiled look that sent goosebumps rushing across her skin. That face that could make her laugh, or cry, or yell. It was such a good face, a noble face, a handsome face. And she stopped herself from wondering about a future day when she would never again see that face, touch that face.  
  
Without really realizing she had even moved, she reached forward, drawing her fingers over his cheek, touching his lips, brushing through the hair at his temple. Instinctively, he turned his head toward her touch, still asleep, but automatically drawn to the familiar caress. Smiling, she let his jaw rest in her palm.  
  
Time had eluded her. It might have been one hour since Ron and Charlie dragged him back. It might have been three.  
  
After she had almost broken down with C.J., she had returned to their bedroom, horrified at her body's near betrayal. Not that the press secretary wouldn't have understood. Not that she didn't have every reason to collapse. But she couldn't let go. Not now. Not when they might not even be facing the worst yet. Because, as much as she resisted admitting it, she knew this could be the start. It didn't have to be, but it could be. And if it was, Jed would need her strong for what awaited them.  
  
Leo had left by then, and Jed lay quietly in the bed, covers pulled up to his chest, not having bothered with pajamas. She was aware of his head turning toward her as she moved from the door to his side, but he didn't speak. She kissed his forehead and he smirked.  
  
"Still warm?" he asked, not fooled by her subtle gesture.  
  
She shook her head and kissed him again in the same place. "Better. I could use the ear thermometer again to be sure."  
  
"Nah. I like this way - until we can do it more recreationally."  
  
The light comment suddenly fell heavy between them. He had joked about that before, but now she knew they both wrestled with dark thoughts. Desperately, she grabbed on to humor as her refuge. "It's going to be even longer before we can - recreate - if you pull another idiotic stunt like that."  
  
"Yes, m'am." He didn't do meek well, couldn't sell something he wasn't. She almost laughed at the incongruity of his tone and his expression. But his jaw suddenly hardened. "Abbey?"  
  
Oh God. She knew that voice. It meant he had something serious to say, something deep to discuss. And she wasn't sure she was ready yet. "I thought C.J. was going to burst a blood vessel when you got up there. You could almost see her mouthing every word along with you." She laughed, forced it out to distract him.  
  
"Abbey - "  
  
Damn it! No! Don't do this now! "And when you hesitated on that reporter's name, I was almost expecting her to leap over the chairs and - "  
  
"Abbey."  
  
"What?" She hadn't meant to snap it, but it came out that way. She was angry. Angry at him for making her listen. Angry at herself for being unable to listen.  
  
But he didn't seem bothered by her reaction. "This might not get better," he said simply.  
  
There. One sentence. Five words. Right out there in the open. Damn it.  
  
"Jed - " What could she say? He was right.  
  
"You know that. I know that. I think Leo knows it, too."  
  
Did he? What had they discussed while she was out of the room? What conspiracy had they hatched this time? She shook her head to clear it of the black thoughts. Leo loved Jed, too, she knew that. Leo wouldn't do anything that would hurt Jed - except convince him to run for a second term. Again, she pushed the ideas from her mind. That was settled long ago. She had supported him throughout the campaign. She had accepted this as their fate, as his destiny. Still, she couldn't help but wonder what if -  
  
"I'm going to do what I need to do, Abbey," he was saying, his eyes bright and determined, his jaw set. "With sight or without sight. Walking or not walking. I am going to do what I need to do."  
  
She nodded. She knew that already. Had no doubts that he would follow through with the bold declaration. She just hoped it didn't kill him in the process.  
  
"Mister President?" A softly gruff voice cut into their conversation.  
  
It wasn't everyday that she was actually glad to see Toby interrupt a private moment with her husband, but his timing saved her from a threatening emotional display. Gritting her teeth to ward off the burn of tears, she waved a hand toward him and saw Josh shift nervously behind.  
  
"Come on in, fellas," she invited.  
  
They shuffled through the door, faces anxious, almost child-like, as they tried not to peer too blatantly at the President. Toby's eyes flashed with a strange emotion, one Abbey couldn't identify, but one that warmed her and disturbed her at the same time.  
  
"Sir?" Josh asked, a timid smile curving his lips.  
  
She started to whisper their names to Jed so he wouldn't have to be embarrassed about not knowing who was there, but he responded before she had a chance.  
  
"Hey, Josh. How's it goin', Toby?" Even though she knew he must be running on whatever final reserves he had somehow conjured up since the collapse after the press conference, he managed to muster a spark of energy for his staff - for his sons.  
  
"Mister President," Toby said, looking down for a moment, as if he could not bring himself to look his boss in the eye, "C.J. told us you - you aren't - feeling well."  
  
Abbey almost laughed at the understatement, wondering if it was C.J.'s humor or Toby's.  
  
"No," Jed admitted, but kept smiling. "Not particularly. But I'll be okay."  
  
That last was meant to reassure. She figured the two men saw the truth of the situation. Their faces were plain enough. They knew.  
  
"We brought you some ice cream, sir," Josh said, holding up the brown bag. "Mint chocolate chip."  
  
"Thanks, Josh," Jed answered.  
  
"That was kind of you, Josh," she said. "It didn't melt on the way here?"  
  
He laughed. "Are you kidding? We were in Toby's car. I think the last time the heater worked was 1982."  
  
"Maybe not even then," Toby added.  
  
She looked down at her husband, glad to see the genuine pleasure on his face at the visit, even through the fatigue. "You want some, honey?"  
  
"Mint chocolate chip? Are you kidding?"  
  
"That's a yes, I see. I'll get a bowl." As she stepped to the door to place the order, she heard the conversation continue.  
  
"We saw the conference, sir," Josh interjected. "You kicked ass." The dimpled grin, trademark Josh, looked good. Abbey wished Jed could see it.  
  
"Better me than them," Jed quipped.  
  
"You took extemporaneous remarks to a new level tonight, Mister President," Toby accused and Abbey suppressed a smile. The President delighted in bristling his communication chief by straying from his carefully constructed words. The fact that he had not even solicited Toby's help for the press conference obviously cut even sharper.  
  
"You think so, Toby?" Jed asked innocently.  
  
"Maybe I'll just take a little vacation before the State of the Union." The flat tone betrayed no teasing, but Abbey saw the twinkle in his eye. Jed, however, did not have that advantage and for a moment, a hint of uncertainly crept across his face. Apparently, Toby noticed, because he quickly added, "Then again, maybe not."  
  
"You know," the President noted, his voice indicating that he had caught on, "Charlie's got a standing one-way ticket to the Yukon. It's not that much trouble to add one to it."  
  
"Yes, sir," Toby acknowledged.  
  
"Okay then. Just so we're clear on that."  
  
"Clear, sir."  
  
"Good."  
  
They stood awkwardly for a half-minute or so before Abbey decided she might as well put it out in the open. No one would relax until someone did.  
  
"The President has a severe ear infection, which actually is getting better."  
  
No one commented. They knew there was more.  
  
She took a deep breath to steel herself. "The fever caused an MS episode. We are fairly certain - " Or at least desperately hoping, she added silently. " - that it is not a true relapse and that the symptoms will subside once the fever is gone."  
  
Stepping forward just a few inches, Toby screwed up enough courage to ask the question they avoided. "Do the symptoms include - vision problems?"  
  
"Yes." That was from Jed. Perhaps he had learned long ago that the best way to deal with Toby was to lay it out there.  
  
"Severe vision problems?" He was pushing, as usual.  
  
This time Jed hesitated, but still answered. "Yes."  
  
For a long, long moment, no one spoke. Abbey closed her eyes, aching with the need to jump in, to save the situation, but something held her back, told her it was not the time.  
  
Finally, Josh nodded and said, "I'll bet Fitz is pissed about your Qumar comments."  
  
She could have kissed him, almost did. Jed laughed.  
  
"I believe that's an understatement," he admitted, clearly relieved to discuss something else. "Leo tells me Nancy's on board, though. We've given them our best serve. Let's see if they can return it."  
  
"Advantage - us," the deputy chief of staff agreed.  
  
"Let's hope," Jed added, lifting both eyebrows.  
  
"Well," Toby said after another pause, "we'll leave you to rest, Mister President. Actually, I figured you might want a draft of comments to make in the event Qumar acts tonight, but after catching the press conference, I'm not sure you need me."  
  
Abbey raised a brow. Even joking, that was an uncharacteristic statement for the boldly spoken communications director.  
  
"I think you're job's safe, Toby," Jed reassured him. "You should have seen the expression on C.J.'s face in the pressroom. She's not really fond of me working without a script, either." He held up his hand, forefinger and thumb parallel. "I came this close to slipping in the word 'fiord' just to screw her up."  
  
Abbey wished he could see Toby smile. It was a rare sight.  
  
"You did well, Mister President," he said simply.  
  
High praise from this man. High praise, indeed. Even Jed seemed a little taken aback by the unexpected endorsement. He opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden noise at the door stopped him.  
  
Leo had entered at his usual uneven stride, face animated with a mixture of alarm and satisfaction. "Mister President," he began, not waiting for an answer. "I have a photo that you need to see - "  
  
The community gasp that sucked most of the air from the room would have been comic if not for the painful realization of his words. " - you need to see - " He winced hard and Abbey watched him mentally kick himself. Toby and Josh stood back in visible discomfort.  
  
She shifted her gaze to Jed, hurting for him, but of everyone in the room, he seemed to be the least affected by Leo's slip.  
  
With an arched brow, he shrugged and said, "Why don't you just tell me what the picture shows, Leo?"  
  
Flushing, the chief of staff closed his own eyes for just a moment before stepping next to the bed. "Yes, sir. It's an aerial shot from one of our unmanned reconnaissance planes, taken at the border of Qumar where the heaviest concentration of troops has been gathered."  
  
The room was quiet. Jed bit at his lip in thought for only a brief pause. "And?"  
  
"This was taken at eleven-forty hours. About thirty-five minutes ago."  
  
Abbey blinked. It was after midnight, then.  
  
"There is a clear indication of an increase in anti-aircraft weaponry. And if you look right here - " He broke off again and cleared his throat. " - well, just to the right of the center concentration there's a shadow that could show - and we're not certain about it, but - "  
  
"For God's sake, Leo, tell me what you see," Jed snapped impatiently.  
  
"A Patriot missile battery."  
  
Again, silence. No one was quite certain he had actually said what he said.  
  
Finally, Jed asked, "What?"  
  
Leo sighed. "A Patriot battery."  
  
"Patriot? Patriot missiles? American Patriot missiles?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"On their side of the border?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"We're sure they're on their side?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Then the explosion they had all anticipated came. "How in the hell did Qumar get a damned Patriot missile battery? How the hell did that happen, Leo?"  
  
"Mister President, we have shared Patriots with some of our friends in the Middle East for some time now. It's possible - "  
  
"Damn it!" He was sitting up, now, teeth gritted, fists clenched.  
  
Alarmed, Abbey placed a hand on his arm to calm him, but he pulled away, not roughly, but away, nevertheless.  
  
"Who was it?"  
  
"I can't say with any surety."  
  
"Who the hell was it, Leo?"  
  
"Turkey."  
  
But instead of gathering fury, Jed let out a heavy breath and pressed his lips together hard. "Turkey."  
  
"We deployed batteries at Diyarbakir, Batman, and Sanliurfa."  
  
"Batman?  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"There's a city in Turkey called 'Batman'?"  
  
"Apparently."  
  
"Holy Ottoman Empire," Josh quipped with a grin that faded immediately when no one else followed him into ill-advised humor. "Sorry," he mumbled and retreated to the window.  
  
"How many?" Jed asked.  
  
"We are only aware of that one." Leo held the photo out for the rest of the group to see. Abbey glanced at it, not really caring what it showed. Leo had told them enough for her, enough to undo whatever good she had managed in getting Jed to rest.  
  
"How many missiles?" Jed wanted to know.  
  
"Each battery comes with five launchers and sixty-four missiles."  
  
"Sixty four? My God." He ran a hand through his hair, destroying whatever semblance of neatness Abbey had managed to create earlier in the evening. "Worst case scenario? They shoot down our missiles?"  
  
"No sir."  
  
"They shoot down our planes?"  
  
"No."  
  
Jed's silence asked the question.  
  
His eyes telling the depth of significance, Leo explained, "They figure out what makes them tick, acquire the technology and come up with a way to defeat them. Then we've got a problem."  
  
For at least half a minute no one moved, neither Toby nor Josh, who had retained their status as observers the entire time. Not Leo, who had just introduced one more complication in an already immeasurably complicated day. Not Jed, whose shoulders had just slumped a bit lower with the press of additional burden.  
  
Finally, the President dropped his head, sighed, and muttered, "Turkey."  
  
"Yes, sir," Leo affirmed.  
  
"Well," Jed snarled ironically, "I'm certainly glad they're on our side. Who knows what they would have given Qumar if they actually liked them?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Then, Abbey smiled as she watched Jed's jaw tighten and his brow crease into a frown. "All right," he said, determination and decision strong in his voice. "Find out if we're missing any of those batteries at Yukbkir, Sanduval - or whatever you said - and the Bat Cave. And if they aren't where they are supposed to be, I want Fitz on the phone finding out what bastard let 'em out of his sight."  
  
"Yes, Mister President," Leo answered quickly, his expression showing that he knew when Jed Bartlet had kicked into overdrive. He turned to leave.  
  
"And find out what the hell the Saudi ambassador is doing over there. Dear Lord, I could have walked to Qumar by now."  
  
Leo nodded, striding from the room and pulling Toby and Josh with him. Echoes of "Good night, Mister President" lingered in the air even after the door had closed. Jed sat for a long time, arms braced on his thighs, head in his hands. Abbey toyed with urging him to lie down, but realized the futility of that effort. He would rest now only after he had thought all of this through.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
He didn't look up, didn't need to, she supposed. "Yeah?"  
  
"Want some ice cream?" That wasn't what she had planned to say at all, but it was safe, and it brought a smile to his face. She couldn't fix Qumar. She couldn't fix him. But she could comfort him and right then, ice cream seemed like the likeliest source.  
  
A quick one-breath chuckle raised his shoulders. "Sure."  
  
Even though it was more soupy than creamy, it was still cold. Ignoring her usual reminders about eating right, Abbey was happy just to get something in him. If that meant mint chocolate chip ice cream, so be it. Even then, his usual appetite was lacking, and he pushed away the bowl after only a few bites.  
  
"I'm kinda beat, Abbey," he confessed, letting his head drop back onto the pillows.  
  
"Yeah," she acknowledged, taking the food away. Another understatement. "Just close your eyes, Babe. I'm right here. I'll always be here."  
  
He obeyed her and it wasn't long before she saw the lines of his face relax, heard his breathing fall into a steady rhythm. She rested her hand lightly on his chest, fingered the gray hair that she always loved to play with when they made love. Would they ever catch a break, she wondered. Couldn't Qumar just go away? Couldn't the press just look for the real stories? Of course, a President collapsing from a high fever, especially one who had the treacherous complication of serious disease, was probably as real a story as they could want. Still, she figured he had earned a respite tonight, if for nothing else than that performance in C.J.'s pressroom.  
  
Just one break.  
  
Just one.  
  
But she didn't see it happening. Not now. Maybe not ever.  
  
So there she sat. Looking at the furniture. Watching him. And thinking. 


	12. Chapter Twelve Abbey

POV: Abbey Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, unfortunately.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 12/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Abbey Bartlet stepped from the shower, only minimally refreshed from the endless tension and trauma of the previous - what had it been - 48 hours? She wasn't exactly sure anymore, couldn't have verified even what day it was if pressed. Toweling her hair semi-dry, she snatched up the bra and panties she had brought with her into the bathroom and slid them on. No one else was in their bedroom at the moment, so she felt safe - for a few minutes, anyway - in this bit of freedom. Besides, she wanted to get back to Jed as soon as possible.  
  
He had slept the rest of the night in relative ease after the bombshell that Qumar somehow acquired patriot missiles. Damn Leo for bringing that to him. Damn him. She truly did not know what harm waiting until morning would have done, but she had long ago realized Jed's duties held no time limit, no boundaries. Still, that didn't prevent her from resenting what it cost him - what it cost them.  
  
She had stepped out early that morning, around 5:00, left arrangements for her staff, touched base with the girls to let them know how their father was doing, even strolled down to the kitchen to place an order of toast for Jed's breakfast. He had eaten only the few bites of ice cream since his collapse and she wanted to get something substantial in him now that he seemed to be able to keep it down.  
  
Before she left, she had brushed her lips over his forehead. Cool and dry. Good news, certainly, and they could use some. Maybe the antibiotics had finally gotten hold of the infection.  
  
Now she slipped back into the room, blinking a bit at the warm stream of sunlight that flowed through the windows. They could use a little good weather, too, now. She had intended to tip-toe to the chest-of-drawers to retrieve a new pair of jeans and a shirt, but she decided to detour for a moment to stand over the bed.  
  
She watched him quietly, the rise and fall of his chest, the stubble of beard across his jaw, the haphazard strands of hair scattered over his forehead. She loved looking at his face, running her eyes along the strong lines. And he had always loved looking at her, too, had told her uncountable times how beautiful she was. Now, he might never -  
  
She clenched her jaw to stop the tears. Then, she prayed. A good Catholic, she knew what she should pray for, had been taught since childhood the proper way to pray. She should ask for God's will, should seek guidance in handling the situation, wisdom in dealing with their lot. But she found herself asking for more, interjecting her own desperate desires into the plea.  
  
Heal him. Dear God, please heal him. Let him see again. Let him be whole a little longer. Please.  
  
"Hey."  
  
The call was soft, tender. She looked up and saw that his eyes had opened and were on her, and she wondered what she looked like now to him. Was she just a vague blob, or a silhouette against a splotched background? The room was lighter, and maybe it helped him distinguish more of her. She could only hope.  
  
Forgetting about her clothes, she perched on the side of the bed and looked at him, tried to see into his eyes, to draw out all the complicated parts that were keeping him from seeing again. Helpless. Frustrated. Angry. She was a damn good doctor and she couldn't do a thing for him. Not medically, anyway.  
  
Those eyes shifted down, away from her face, and her heart sank at the realization that they might never communicate visually again. As he lingered there at some vague point just below her neck, she swallowed the lump in her throat with that thought. They had always been able to read each other, to exchange a glance that sent detailed, complicated messages between the two of them. What would losing that do? How would it change their relationship? He still had not moved his blank stare and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.  
  
"Jed?" she prompted, bracing to reassure him.  
  
"Good morning," he said, finally.  
  
"Good morning." Okay. New day. Let's face it. "I ordered you some toast. Feel like you could eat a little?"  
  
He shrugged, his eyes not shifting, not moving to meet hers.  
  
Forcing down the sob that pushed at her throat, she continued, "Well, I ordered it anyway. You're fever's gone, I think. How do you feel?"  
  
Again, he didn't look up, but just nodded slightly. "Okay."  
  
She wished he would say more, wanted to hear the energy that he had carried in his tone even last night, even after the press conference, even when Leo had dropped the latest disaster on him. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, what he was doing. He was just sitting there, his eyes looking straight ahead.  
  
She just couldn't stand it any longer. "Jed?" she asked. Please talk to me. Please tell me what you feel.  
  
"You know," he said finally, a completely unexpected touch of humor in his voice, "not that I'm complaining, you understand, but I really hope you're going to put something on over that when Grand Central opens again here. You know these guys don't need much encouragement. I'd just as soon they not be encouraged by my own wife."  
  
Smiling in confused relief, she chuckled a little. He was incorrigible, she thought, shaking her head. Always ready with a sexual reference if he thought it might get him -  
  
She stopped for a beat.  
  
Then took another beat.  
  
Her head shot up suddenly, eyes hard on his face, searching, demanding.  
  
What did he just say? What did he just say?  
  
Slowly, the implication of his words crystallized into meaning.  
  
"Jed?" It was all she could manage at the moment.  
  
He smiled and finally moved his eyes to meet hers, to hold hers. "My God, you're beautiful, Abigail."  
  
She still couldn't move, couldn't allow herself to accept what he was telling her. It was too risky, too emotionally dangerous to contemplate. Instead, she found herself stumbling over her tongue.  
  
"What are you - can you - when did you - "  
  
"This morning about daybreak," he said, having no trouble comprehending what she was asking. His eyes had locked on her, with no intention of letting go.  
  
Oh my God! Oh my God!  
  
It hit her, then, and all the pain, all the anguish, all the unshed tears erupted from her in an almost violent burst.  
  
"Why the hell didn't you say something?" she screamed, not caring if the secret service heard.  
  
"I - "  
  
"Don't you know this is killing me?"  
  
"Abbey - "  
  
"Can't you tell I died for you every time you didn't reach out, or return a gesture, or answer your daughters' smiles when they were scared to death?"  
  
The sharp pain on his face at the abrupt realization of what his family had been through caught her then, forced her brain to regain control.  
  
She took in a ragged breath, and her voice faltered. "Oh Jed, don't you know that I was scared to death, too?"  
  
The sobs choked her, shook her body, all of the fear and despair finally pouring from her in a rush of raw emotion. Despite the anger she had directed at him, he reached out, drew her to him, pulled her head to his shoulder and whispered softly. Her hands clutched at him.  
  
"Shh, Babe," he soothed, rocking gently. "I wasn't sure at first. It didn't just - click on. More like it - faded back in. I didn't want - I didn't want to get your hopes up too soon." She heard the unspoken addendum, "I didn't want to get MY hopes up - "  
  
His hands smoothed her hair, his lips brushed her cheek and ear. It felt so good to be in his arms again, better even than she had imagined.  
  
"Abbey?" he prompted finally when she didn't respond.  
  
Slowly she pulled back and regarded him with an enigmatic stare. "You are undoubtedly," she declared, "the biggest jackass in the United States of America."  
  
He raised a brow. "Just in the U.S.?"  
  
A smile began to curve her lips. "In the world?"  
  
"Damn straight," he assured her.  
  
The smile stretched into a grin, a thrill of anticipation dashing across her skin as they held each other's eyes again, and he looked - really looked - at her. He tugged her against him, reaching up to take her face in his hands, to draw her mouth to his. The kiss was slow, tender, but passionate, growing harder, hotter by the second. His hands shifted downward, over the lace of the bra. She knew this couldn't happen, knew he wasn't ready for anything more, but she couldn't bear to stop him. Her own hands ran over his chest, clutched at the hair as if to claim him again. His fingers danced across her stomach, between her thighs, igniting an unquenchable fire. She groaned and followed the trail of hair down his torso to return the favor, delighted and a bit surprised to find him hardening in her palm. Almost from some strange bird's eye view she watched the scene unfold, saw them entwined on the big, elegant bed, their bodies moving against each other.  
  
It was his breathing that managed to snap the tightly wound band of desire. Almost a gasp, actually, as his body reminded him how sick he had been - still was. Heart pounding, blood racing, she had to pull away before they had gone too far - before they actually caused harm.  
  
With effort, she pushed down the desires that almost overwhelmed her and tried to retreat into doctor mode. "Jed?"  
  
He fell back onto the bed, eyes closed, breath coming hard.  
  
"Jed?" Try not to be frightened. Give him a minute.  
  
He mustered a weak smile between gasps. "I didn't want - to - stop," he managed, "but I - "  
  
She smiled. "It's okay. It's my fault." Brushing the hair from his eyes, she added, "But I definitely want a rain check."  
  
He nodded. "Oh yeah."  
  
After a few minutes, when he had gotten control again, she said, "Describe it to me."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What you can see. How well you can see. Is it back to normal?" Don't ask for too much, yet, she reminded herself. Be patient.  
  
He gazed past her, thinking. "Maybe not quite normal, yet, but fairly close, I guess. Blurry still a little, like when I just take off my glasses if I've worn them for a long time." Now he looked at her again and smiled. "But I can see."  
  
She nodded, still trying to control the emotions. "Had to be Uhthoff's, then. After your body cooled off long enough, the symptoms subsided. It even could have been affected by the ice cream you ate last night."  
  
He seemed surprised. "You think?"  
  
"Maybe. There's still so much we don't know about - well, who knows? I'd better get Hackett so he can check you, too." She started to move to the door.  
  
"Sweet Knees?" he said quietly.  
  
Turning, she saw that grin on his face - that grin of sheer delight dancing along with gleeful mischief.  
  
"I am definitely enjoying the view, but that gorgeous body is not for sharing. At least not with anyone but me."  
  
Flushing furiously, she looked down and realized she still wore just the bra and panties. "Dear Lord, you've got me so flustered I almost walked out into the hall like that."  
  
His expression faded a little into both amusement and gravity. "Yeah, well, I'm sure Ron and the guys would have appreciated it, but I'm not too crazy about the idea."  
  
"You've always been selfish like that."  
  
He nodded. "Always will be, Matilda. Always will be."  
  
And she wouldn't have it any other way. Slipping on a pair of jeans and one of his T-shirts, she stepped outside, immediately drawing the attention of Ron Butterfield, who would never know how close he came to a bit of serendipity that morning.  
  
"M'am," he asked carefully, "is everything all right?"  
  
So he had heard her lambasting of Jed. If it had been anyone but Ron, she would have ignored him completely. But Ron was different. "Everything is fine. Actually, everything is very fine. Could you please get Admiral Hackett for me?"  
  
His eyes betrayed a curiosity, but he didn't ask further. "Yes, m'am," he answered and headed toward the Lincoln Bedroom.  
  
"You wanna call the girls?" Jed asked, when she slipped back in.  
  
The girls. Yes, this would be a good phone call. "I'll let you," she decided, and was rewarded by a pleased nod.  
  
"And Leo," he reminded her.  
  
She thought of the sadness and pain on C.J.'s face when she had watched Jed yesterday. She thought of the shock and frustration clear in the bodies of Toby and Josh as they tried to act normal - well, as normal as they could act. "I think there are a few others who might be interested, too."  
  
Jed glanced up - thank God that glancing truly meant something again - and nodded, probably recalling the same things she was.  
  
Oh yes, there were a few others who might be interested. And it would truly be a joy to watch them find out.  
  
She turned at the sudden swinging open of the door, expecting Hackett but not surprised to see Leo stride in once more. Immediately, her defenses shot up, ready to protect her husband from whatever his chief of staff - and best friend - was threatening. The hard purpose in Leo's gait revealed a mission, a determination. And definitely not good news.  
  
"Mister President," he greeted curtly, almost as a perfunctory duty.  
  
"Hey, Leo," Jed returned, his smile tentative. He knew something was up, too. "Nice tie."  
  
As usual, even at 7:00 in the morning, Leo was impeccably dressed.  
  
"Thanks." The word slid out absently.  
  
Abbey waited.  
  
"We finally heard from the Saudi ambassador. I still don't know what took him so long, but it's not - " Okay. Now he's got it. His eyebrows drew together, his head cocked just slightly. Narrowing his gaze at the President, he asked precisely, "What?"  
  
"What what?" Jed shot back. He was going to play this, she saw. Well, he deserved a little fun.  
  
"What did you say?" Leo clarified in clipped tones. "Jed, what did you say?"  
  
Ah. Not "Mister President" anymore. He had been snagged. Abbey suppressed a grin, now that the game was not focused on her.  
  
"I said, 'Nice tie.' You usually wear those goofy things that remind me of a Rorschach test, but that one - "  
  
"How do you know - what does it look like?"  
  
"Your tie?" She marveled at her husband's talent for the straight face.  
  
"Yes, my tie! Are you telling me that you - that you can SEE my tie?"  
  
Finally, that familiar grin broke out, no longer able to hide behind the innocent façade. Jed nodded, his eyes, alert and warm, connecting with his friend's.  
  
"Thank God," Leo breathed, making it to the bed in three long strides. "Thank God."  
  
Abbey stepped back, allowed them this moment, tears brimming in her eyes at the delight and relief on Leo's face. He clasped Jed's shoulder hard, looked as if he wanted to do more, then finally gave in and grabbed him up into a bear hug. Jed returned it with as much heartiness as he could manage before they released each other.  
  
"How long - when - " That sounded familiar.  
  
"Couple of hours now," Jed said vaguely. It wasn't really important anyway. He could see again; that was what mattered.  
  
"I can't believe it. I mean last night you were - well, I can't believe it."  
  
"It happens," Abbey explained. "It was Uhthoff's Phenomenon, a symptom triggered by the high fever. When the fever when down and stayed down long enough, the vision impairment abated."  
  
"What were you saying, Leo?" Jed asked, suddenly more somber. She had forgotten the chief of staff had entered with a distinct message.  
  
He seemed to shake himself, after one last grin at his friend. "Oh. I, uh, the Saudi ambassador, who apparently rode on camel or something to get there, has reported no progress in gaining the cooperation of the Qumari president or anyone else who might have had influence."  
  
"Damn," Jed snapped. The joy of the moment collapsed into frustration.  
  
"There's more."  
  
Well, of course there was, Abbey thought. There always is.  
  
"Batman's missing its Patriot. Looks like we were right."  
  
Amazing how a mood could change so quickly. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen Abbey

POV: Abbey Spoilers: All shows dealing with Qumar Rating: PG Disclaimer: Characters are not ours. Unfortunately.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 13/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
"Well, I concur, Doctor, with your diagnosis. It certainly appears to have been Uhthoff's Phenomenon and not true optical neuritis."  
  
Abbey Bartlet sat sideways on the big, classic bed, the fingers of her left hand absently gripping the comforter, those of her right entwined with her husband's.  
  
"Which means?" she prompted, wanting to hear him say it.  
  
"Which means," Admiral Hackett continued, his face lighter, "the episode was fever-induced and not a relapse."  
  
The pronunciation allowed her a deep, relieved sigh. Not that she didn't trust her own judgment, but it was just gratifying to hear the same positive opinion from someone else. Jed squeezed her hand and she twisted a bit to beam at him, unable to keep from leaning forward for a soft kiss, in spite of the audience, which had now grown to include their three daughters and granddaughter in addition to Leo and Hackett.  
  
"Thank God," Liz breathed, her own grin echoing her father's almost identically. Beside her, Annie couldn't stop the tears that brimmed in her young eyes, and with an encouraging nod from her grandfather, broke away to throw her arms around his neck and let him pull her into a tight embrace. With her own eyes shining, Abbey rose, patting her granddaughter on the shoulder as she stepped to accept her daughters' hugs. As soon as Annie let go enough, all of them seemed to be falling over the President of the United States, laughing and crying at once.  
  
From the corner of her eye, she caught the happy, but a bit awkward expressions of the other men, who moved quietly toward the door. Pushing away, she shook her head and called out to them.  
  
"Where are you two going?"  
  
With an embarrassed grin, Leo said, "We're just leaving you a little privacy, Abbey. This is a family moment. We'll be back."  
  
Hackett nodded his agreement, his eyes suspiciously bright themselves. "The roads are clear enough now for me to go home," he told her. "I'll make arrangements for a full battery at Bethesda next week, but this is a good sign."  
  
She knew the rest of the sentence. "- for now - " But she just nodded back and accepted his decision. And maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn't the beginning at all. Maybe it was - maybe it was just what it appeared to be. Her mind grabbed onto that thought, clutched at it tenaciously.  
  
"Are you well enough?" she asked Hackett pointedly, keeping him honest.  
  
He smiled indulgently as if he had expected nothing less. "Yes, m'am. I am."  
  
She considered his sincerity for a moment, then nodded. "All right. But don't try to do too much too soon." It was a common warning, but one she meant.  
  
His answer held no flippancy. "No, m'am."  
  
"Doctor?" How could she say this? How could she tell him how much his loyalty and compassion meant to her - and to Jed?  
  
He waited expectantly.  
  
Finally she settled on the simplest and most heartfelt sentiment. "Thank you."  
  
He nodded and smiled at her, comprehending more than just the two words.  
  
Gathering herself again, she called to Leo, "Would you send in C.J. in just a bit?"  
  
The chief of staff smiled and tossed a hand out in acknowledgement of her request. "Sure."  
  
"Leo?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Don't tell her anything."  
  
Now the grin stretched a little wider. "Wouldn't think of it. Mind if I come back with her?"  
  
Now Abbey smiled in gleeful conspiracy. "Nah."  
  
"Leo!" They all turned at that voice.  
  
His demeanor shifted instantly. "Sir?" Had it only been a half hour ago that he had grabbed up his friend in an unabashed and emotional embrace? Now, it was back to formality.  
  
Jed sat up in the bed, disentangling himself from his daughters' arms. "I'll need to talk with Fitz. Can he get through?"  
  
"Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, he's in the Sit Room right now."  
  
"Good. Let me get dressed and I'll be there in - "  
  
"Jed!" She could not believe what she was hearing. Or maybe she could. If he had been crazy enough to drag himself into the press room, blind and stumbling, he wouldn't think twice about limping into the Situation Room.  
  
"Abbey - " he countered, and the voice held a sharp edge of warning. She heard the unspoken reminder. I am the President. This is my duty.  
  
Well, the hell with those duties. They had taken enough from them the past three days. Fitz could damn well come to him.  
  
"He can meet you here, Jed. Can't he?"  
  
Their eyes clashed, and even though the battle of wills raged for a moment, she still couldn't suppress a thrill of joy at the ability to do it once again. But he had proven himself already, hadn't he? Pushed to the very edge of his endurance. Did he have to plunge over the cliff? To her surprise, the familiar, stubborn face softened.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Okay? He said okay?  
  
"Send Fitz up here, Leo. But give me a few minutes with C.J., all right?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
And they were gone, and the girls were kissing their father and her and filing out, gaits visibly lighter. For a moment they faced each other alone.  
  
"I can't stop being President, Abbey," he told her, voice resigned, not quite masking the small pleading tone.  
  
She knew that. God, how she knew that, but he could at least take a few more hours before he leaped back in. "Fitz'll come up here. What difference will that make?"  
  
But it made a difference to Jed. She understood that. He had faced his fallibility, had looked once more into his mortality and been cruelly reminded of its ultimate victory. It made him all the more determined to control what he could, to conquer everything that was conquerable in his life. If that was symbolized in walking himself to the Sit Room, that's what he would do.  
  
"Abbey - " He faltered and she knew he couldn't find the words to explain. It didn't matter. She knew them already.  
  
"It's okay, Jed," she assured him, sitting once more next to him. "You'll be stronger tomorrow, back to normal by the end of the week."  
  
"This could have been it, Abbey."  
  
Don't say it, Jed. Not yet.  
  
But he persisted. "It could have been the beginning - "  
  
Of the end? Was that what he meant? "It wasn't, Jed. You heard Hackett. It was just the fever."  
  
"It will be one day. You know that."  
  
She tried to smile at him, knowing that finally he had accepted what she had preached to him for ten years. That his body was fighting him, was attacking him, and there was very little they could do to stop it. But now that he had stated it himself, she almost wished for a return to his old denial, to his bravado of ignoring any suggestion of weakness. Was almost angry with him for facing it.  
  
Well, now that the roles were reversed she would just have to pick up his stubborn streak for him.  
  
Holding his gaze a beat longer, she declared, "But not today, Josiah. Not today."  
  
His lips pressed together in an attempt to stem the emotion she had triggered. For a moment, he just looked at her, his eyes warm with love, bright with gratitude. Then he reached a hand out to her, drawing her closer when she took it. Slipping his other hand behind her head, he kissed her. It was a kiss full of many things. Love, compassion, attraction, friendship, fear, anticipation. It would lead nowhere, but it had taken them everywhere.  
  
"Oh, man. I'm sorry, uh, Leo said - " The stammering, chagrined voice broke them apart.  
  
Abbey pulled back, almost laughing at the mortification on the press secretary's face. C.J. had no doubt expected that the last thing she would encounter in the President's sick room would be the President and First Lady making out on his bed. Not that she hadn't interrupted them before, but in the present situation she had probably felt relatively safe.  
  
Abbey smiled and rose to meet her. "It's okay, Claudia. Come on in. We were just - talking."  
  
To her credit, C.J. lifted a dubious brow and replied, "Yeah. I could see that."  
  
Her cheeks were slightly flushed and Abbey realized with a sudden bit of chagrin herself that Jed still wore only his boxers. He jerked his chin up toward the robe hanging over the foot of the bed and she tossed it to him with a laugh. Poor C.J. She had probably seen more than she ever wanted to in the past two days.  
  
"How are you feeling this morning, sir?" the press secretary asked politely, but Abbey heard the genuine concern in her tone.  
  
"Better, C.J., thanks," Jed told her. If she had been watching him instead of C.J., Abbey would have noticed the sudden shadow of mischief that flitted across his face. "I thought I'd do another press conference about noon today, just to keep them on their toes. Maybe we'll address the next step with Qumar."  
  
For a stunned moment, Abbey stared at her husband, wondering what the hell he was doing. But 35 years of marriage had given her recognition of even his most subtle expressions. She buried a smile as C.J. fell for it.  
  
"You - you - Mister President, that's not - well, surely you're not serious about - I mean, why do you think - " Even C.J.'s hair seemed scattered by the curve he had thrown her.  
  
"Ah, there's my new speechwriter, again," he teased, smiling to soften the trick.  
  
She got it, then, and the sheer relief on her face brought the laugh to Abbey's lips. "Mister President, you are truly an evil man."  
  
"I know," he admitted pleasantly. His eyes shifted just slightly as Leo stepped into the room, but C.J. didn't seem to notice. "Would you do me a favor and toss me that apple over there on the table, Claudia? I think I could eat a few bites."  
  
Abbey watched as C.J. automatically reached for the requested object and executed an admirable softball pitch. Immediately, her face froze with the horrible realization that she had just thrown something at the President of the United States - the BLIND President of the United States.  
  
"Sir!" she yelled, voice panicked, but her face showed that she knew it was too late.  
  
Just as the fruit made its final approach to smack straight into the face of its target, Jed's left hand whipped up and snatched it out of the air with the agility of a third baseman fielding a line drive. "Thanks," he said simply.  
  
There was a long silence. Abbey's eyes moved from C.J.'s stunned expression to Leo's smirk to Jed's smug grin. Finally, the press secretary let out a delighted squeal, a sound none of them had ever heard from her before. Before anyone could comment, she had launched herself at Jed and squeezed him hard, placing a solid kiss on his cheek.  
  
"Oh my God!" she cried, laughing and crying at once. "I'm so glad. I am so glad."  
  
Totally at ease with her affection, Jed returned the hug until she pulled back to stare at him. "You really can see?" she asked. "Really?"  
  
He nodded. "Really."  
  
Then she seemed to regain some semblance of control. Glancing around, embarrassed at her display, she took a step back, smoothed her blouse, and said, as calmly as possible, "That is certainly good news, Mister President."  
  
Her efforts did nothing to diminish the delight on all their faces. Jed laughed aloud, and it was certainly a good sound. He opened his mouth to respond, but a new voice drew his attention.  
  
"Mister President?" Admiral Fitzwallace stood in the doorway, looking out of place and odd without his ornate Dress Blues. His civilian garb spoke of the unusual situation. It was not often he allowed himself to be caught in less than perfect dress. But his presence was not diminished in the least. He still stood straight and strong.  
  
"Fitz!" Jed called. "Come on in you old sea dog."  
  
He entered, smiling but not smiling, in that deadpan way he had. Abbey had little opportunity to be around Fitz, but Jed spoke of him often, his warmth revealing deep affection and gratitude for the career officer's trust and devotion.  
  
"Mister President, how are you feeling?" Casual, yet genuine at once.  
  
"Never better," Jed declared. At the uplifted brow, he amended, "Well, maybe not never, but better, anyway."  
  
"That's good news, sir." Fitz looked at his President closely now, trying not to be too obvious, but Abbey knew what he sought.  
  
"That's better, too, Fitz," Jed told him, understanding, as well.  
  
"So," Fitz began, tentatively wading in, "does that mean that - "  
  
Jed interrupted him before he got too far. "And I might ask, Mister Chairman, why you're out of uniform."  
  
Fitz smiled openly now as he got the answer to his question. "I could ask you the same thing, sir," he returned, nodding at Jed's hastily donned robe.  
  
"Hey, man, I've been sleeping it off. Haven't you heard?" Abbey shook her head at her husband's dark humor.  
  
Fitz sobered, hearing the truth behind the joke. "Yes, sir. I have."  
  
"All right," Jed said, giving them all unspoken permission to stand down. Time for business. "What do we have with the Patriot?"  
  
Instantly becoming the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs again, Fitz fell into the attitude of a reporting officer. "Turkey says it was a mistaken delivery and Qumari operatives intercepted the transport."  
  
Jed snorted derisively. Even Abbey didn't believe that. "Is there such a thing as Qumari operatives? What is it, like two guys with a bazooka and binoculars in the back of a truck?"  
  
"It's set up to intercept a direct attack on the border," Fitz continued without missing a beat, well accustomed to the President's sarcastic asides.  
  
"And what is most vulnerable to it?"  
  
"Scuds."  
  
"Which we won't be firing."  
  
"Cruise."  
  
"What else?"  
  
"Aircraft."  
  
"Ours?"  
  
"Some."  
  
Jed took a moment to look out the window. Abbey followed his gaze, and, despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't suppress that giddy surge of relief again as she realized he could really see. With a sigh, he turned back.  
  
"We got somethin' set up?"  
  
"Special ops."  
  
"To get it back?" Jed asked hopefully.  
  
Fitz held his ground. "To destroy it."  
  
It was rare that Abbey was privy to Sit Room discussions. In fact, she had never been privy and wondered now if she should leave, but neither Jed nor Fitz nor Leo indicated that necessity, so she stood next to C.J. and listened in anxious fascination.  
  
"Odds?" Jed asked, and she saw him brace for the answer. This was always the hardest part for him, hearing the raw probability of deaths incurred directly because of his decision.  
  
"Good," Fitz told him.  
  
"Numbers."  
  
"Eighty percent probability of success."  
  
"Casualties?"  
  
"Ours?"  
  
Jed nodded.  
  
"Five percent."  
  
"Theirs?"  
  
"Fifty percent."  
  
Fifty percent. Was that good or bad? She didn't know. Jed didn't seem to like it, though. He frowned up at the admiral. After a moment, he startled them all by throwing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. She forced herself to stay still, not to rush around to help him. An impulsive shift next to her let her know that C.J. fought the same instinct.  
  
"Mister President?" Leo asked, his voice a gentle warning. Good for Leo.  
  
But Jed merely glared at his chief of staff, his eyes hard. "I'll make this decision standing up," he vowed, and the determination in his voice struck them all.  
  
Slowly, he pushed up, taking his weight alone for the first time since the press conference. Abbey didn't breathe as he swayed a bit before gaining his equilibrium. The robe hung open, but he didn't seem to care that he stood again, for all practical purposes, in his underwear. He had been through enough to figure that part didn't really matter. Still, he took a moment to tie the sash before attempting to move. Jaw set, he took a tentative step forward on his right leg. Abbey realized she held her own jaw so tight it ached. One step. Another. A slight limp still, but not bad. By the time he had reached the couch, they had all allowed themselves to breathe again. When Jed turned, however, there was no triumph in his tone. He was focused on his decision. His eyes met Fitzwallace's.  
  
"Okay." Simple. Curt. Sure.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"We'll know something in six hours."  
  
"Do it." With a dismissive nod, Jed watched the officer leave. Then, he turned and saw the others' faces. A smile slipped to his lips in acknowledgement of their delight at seeing him walk unaided.  
  
"Think I'll take a shower," he said, then paused and added, "a WARM shower - by myself."  
  
Abbey laughed in defense against the difficult reminder of that horrible night. When she met his eyes, they were dancing.  
  
"Unless you want to join me?" he invited boldly, smirking at her past Leo's and C.J.'s red faces.  
  
"You up for that, Babe?" she countered, just as saucily.  
  
Leo groaned and threw up his hands. "Okay, I'm outta here. Let's go, C.J."  
  
The younger woman followed, but her grin showed her joy for them nevertheless. Abbey watched them leave, then stepped to her husband, untying the robe and sliding her hands up his chest.  
  
"It's a tempting invitation," she told him. "But you know it's too soon - "  
  
"Yeah." He smiled down at her and kissed her. "But I am, you know."  
  
"You're what?"  
  
He guided her hand to his boxers. Yep. He was, indeed, up for it. She squeezed gently and he groaned, pushing against her. Reluctantly, she dropped her hand before she could not longer trust herself to step away.  
  
"But we can't, right?" He knew as much, even though his voice held a hint of hope.  
  
"Give yourself a couple of days, Jed." Now she was serious.  
  
"Okay." But his heart wasn't in it. "Maybe I'll make that shower cold, after all," he muttered ruefully.  
  
"Need any help?" she offered.  
  
"Now you're just being mean."  
  
She grinned, but watched him closely as he limped into the bathroom. No, he wasn't quite there, yet. But he would be. She knew that now. And she did something she had not done since Rosslyn. Dropping to her knees, she lifted up a prayer of thanks to God, a heartfelt, yearning gratitude for His mercy.  
  
When she rose, she felt so drained that she could muster only enough energy to drape herself over the couch arm and stare into the darkened fireplace. She had always hated looking at a fireplace when it wasn't being used. It was cold, empty. It needed the life and spirit of the flames to animate it, to warm it. And as she gazed at the blackened bricks, it occurred to her that she needed the same thing, except that Jed was her flame, bringing life and spirit to her, animating her, warming her. And she knew she did the same for him.  
  
She had been scared, terrified, that she would lose him. That the fire that burned within her would die and leave her with nothing but a dark, gaping, chill. For a dismal moment, her soul fell under the weight of the thought, but with a determined thrust, she forced her mind to the positive, to their successes of the day. It was good, now. He was better. He would get even better and they would put this one behind them, resume life as normal. Until the next one. Until then.  
  
She had sunk so far into her contemplation that the startling shrill of the phone actually jerked her off the couch arm. Unfolding from the floor, she caught it after the third ring.  
  
"Abbey?" Leo said, and she heard the strain in his voice. She tensed.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is the President available?"  
  
The President. Formal. Serious. Not good.  
  
She glanced toward the door, heard a Sinatra tune float in Jed's tones from behind it. "He's in the shower, Leo."  
  
"Get him." Short. Demanding. Not good.  
  
"Leo?" She knew she shouldn't ask, but the response was reflexive.  
  
"Something's happened, Abbey. I need the President." His voice softened, but lost none of its intensity. "I need him now." 


	14. Chapter Fourteen Jed

POV: Jed Spoilers: "Election Night" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not ours. Wish they were.  
  
They Can't Take That Away 14/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
  
Despite his wife's frustrated arguments, despite his chief of staff's hesitant second-guessing, despite his own body's cautious warnings, despite all that - and a few other reservations - Josiah Bartlet stood in the Situation Room of the White House listening to his Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and his National Security Advisor replay their current situation.  
  
Well, standing was a relative term.  
  
In fact, he leaned heavily on the chair that was always at his place at the head of the table, giving a reluctant acquiescence to his legs that had grown a bit wobblier with the increased expenditure of energy and his muscles that begged him to take advantage of the more comfortable cushions. But he forced his body to remain erect, willed himself to stay standing - or leaning - until they finished. It was the least he could do, and it allowed him to convey the message of strength that he intended to send.  
  
Still, he reminded himself, searching for the positives in this, he could not even have held his head up this long 24 hours before. And that was the only reason Abbey had not absolutely put her foot down about him leaving the Residence. Even so, he knew he would pay when he returned, both from her own wrath and from his body's. Every nerve ending screamed at him for the abuse. Attempting a stance of confidence, he shoved a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and arched his back slightly, straining against the familiar twinge.  
  
"What're their names again?" he asked, weariness involuntarily dragging his tone down to the next register.  
  
Fitzwallace's eyes acknowledged both the physical and emotional pain his President felt. "Warrant Officers Mario Sonyata and Elaine Barkston."  
  
"Army?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He knew that already. Had been told as soon as he got the facts, but he wanted to hear it again, to connect a person with the event, never to forget what his decisions cost, unwilling to remove the human quantity from the picture.  
  
"Family?"  
  
Fitz patiently repeated the information. "Sonyata has - had a wife and two kids in Florida. Parents live in Waco. Barkston's mother lives in San Diego."  
  
He breathed out quickly, a short exhalation, almost a laugh, but with no humor. "I suppose an Apache helicopter was one of those 'aircraft' you mentioned as 'some' that the Patriot could shoot down."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Before he could stop himself, he scrubbed at his face, running a fatigued hand over his eyes and down across his rough chin. In response to Leo's urgent call, Abbey had gotten him out of the shower before he could shave, so now he figured he looked particularly ragged with a three-days growth of beard. When he looked up, they were all staring at him, as if they expected him to keel over any minute. With effort, he straightened and drew the strength of his office around him.  
  
"Okay. Where are we with special ops?" Please say they're ready. Let's just do this already.  
  
He wasn't so tired that he missed the uneasy exchange between Fitz and Nancy McNally. "What?"  
  
"Sir - " The NSA began, obviously reluctant to say whatever she needed to say. That wasn't like her. He realized with a flush of irritated embarrassment that she was holding back because of him, because of his physical condition. Damn it.  
  
"Tell me," he demanded, putting enough edge into his voice to snap her out of her momentary hesitancy.  
  
"They have apparently anticipated our response to the attack."  
  
Naturally. "How?"  
  
"They've - moved the battery."  
  
Well, hell. "Moved it where?" He felt himself begin to shake and clamped down on his teeth to try to ward it off. "Where is it now?"  
  
Fitz stepped forward slightly, drawing the attention away from McNally. "Same area, Mister President, but different enough that we'll have to delay the mission in order to reconnoiter appropriately."  
  
"Son of a bitch!" From somewhere his body dredged up enough adrenaline to let him slam his fist down on the table. The resounding whack startled every person in the room, including the normally unflappable NSA. It was stark evidence of his exhaustion that he allowed himself such loss of control in front of these particular people.  
  
They seemed to know, however, to wait until he gathered himself. And he did. After a few moments, he asked, voice level and calm again, "How much longer?"  
  
"Another four hours, sir."  
  
"What's to keep them from moving it again?" he wondered. Seemed too damned easy the first time.  
  
"No guarantee, Mister President," Nancy explained, her eyes holding his.  
  
In them he saw a mixture of admiration, compassion, pride, and concern and was suddenly grateful that he could utilize that sense again, that he could read her feelings. One day he would have to give himself time to reflect on the sensation of virtual blindness, to ponder the emotions involved in thinking you were going to lose your sight. One day he would indulge himself in that. But not now. There simply wasn't enough time now.  
  
"Great."  
  
"But they won't," Fitz assured him.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"They don't have the technology to move efficiently at night. We've got until their morning to get into place." He sounded confident. Jed wanted to believe him.  
  
"Four hours?"  
  
"Well, it was originally six, sir. That brings us up to ten."  
  
He nodded and pushed away from the table, working hard not to let them see the momentary sway. "Can we retrieve the bodies?" Hard question. One he didn't want to ask right then, but he had to.  
  
"We're already on that, sir. We'll need to get the wreckage cleared, too, before they can examine it."  
  
He snorted. "What are they going to do, build their own?"  
  
No one answered him. That was okay. He really didn't want a response anyway. "Bring them back home, Fitz. They deserve to be buried on American soil."  
  
The veteran admiral nodded solemnly.  
  
"Okay. Let me know when we're ready to move." A heavy sigh burdened his shoulders. "I've got calls to make now."  
  
And both Fitz and Nancy grimaced with him over that unenviable duty. It was absolutely the worse part of his job. And it certainly had not gotten any easier with experience. He reflected ruefully that he had way too much experience with that in the past four years.  
  
He took a step away from the table and, despite his best efforts, couldn't mask the limp that still hobbled him. He avoided their eyes, now, afraid to see pity in them, but Nancy's call forced his head up.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
He turned as casually as possible without having to catch himself on the doorframe. "Yeah?"  
  
"Good to see you, sir." Simple and heartfelt. And not a trace of pity to be heard.  
  
He smiled. "Probably not as good as it is for me to see you."  
  
She smiled back. "No, sir, I wouldn't think so."  
  
He pushed down the hall, his steps visibly labored. For a moment the familiar walls and their adornments blurred, and he thrust out a hand instinctively to steady himself. God. Not now. Not again.  
  
"Sir, do you - " The tentative question came from Ron Butterfield, who dutifully shadowed him.  
  
Turning to look at his omnipresent agent, he blinked until Ron's face shifted back into focus. Okay. Better. With a careful breath, he pushed back the threatening fear of what that might foreshadow. He would not give in again. He would absolutely not do it.  
  
"Do I what?" he asked, not unkindly.  
  
"Do you - need any help, sir?" Those eyes that usually remained stoic and hard had softened in a startlingly uncharacteristic display of emotion - for Ron, anyway.  
  
A little surprised, Jed fought down the wave of frustrated anger that swept over him, cursing his body for its betrayal, and reminding himself that it was Ron's job, after all, to take care of him. Counting to ten, he calmly shook his head and continued on in a slow, halting pace that was far removed from his customary strides. The room cooperatively remained in focus.  
  
But a few feet down the hall, his clouded mind flashed scenes of a frigid shower, a wild, almost hallucinogenic montage of memory, of the man next to him holding him, standing with him, right there by his side, the water pounding both of them. He stopped and turned to the agent, his voice warmer.  
  
"Not now, Ron. But - thanks." And the gratitude was for much more than the offer. He made sure Ron could tell that, too.  
  
Butterfield nodded once and it was as if he had never dropped the mask. But Jed knew he had seen it and was thankful for the gift.  
  
"Mister President!" The usually gruff voice sounded out of place with the touch of joy brightening it. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.  
  
"Tobias," he greeted, forcing the lilt into his own tones. "What's up?"  
  
Ron fell back as Toby moved up beside him, not touching him, but close enough to lend a hand if necessary. Jed tried not to let that bother him, either, but the attention was - uncomfortable.  
  
"C.J. told me you - were doing better." Always the understatement.  
  
Jed smiled. They both knew what he meant. "Yeah." All right, push on. "Listen, I need you to get with Leo on the tax reform bill. Bring Josh in, too. Give me a rough draft by Friday week." That wasn't really pressing, but he needed to stay with safe issues for the moment - needed Toby to stay with them, too.  
  
"Yes, sir." They walked a few more halting paces before Toby spoke again. His tone was uncharacteristically meek. "I thought maybe, well, Mrs. Bartlet indicated that you might be interested in a contest of the minds over a chess board later today."  
  
Jed pulled up sharply, so much so that Ron narrowly avoided plowing into him. Suspicious, he eyed the communications director. "Mrs. Bartlet indicated - " Abbey couldn't convince him to rest, so she had created an entire conspiracy and enlisted the aid of several accomplices, including one Tobias Ziegler.  
  
"Contest of the minds, huh?" he asked, amused at the total concentration of innocence on Toby's face. "Haven't you had enough humiliation at the hands of a master?"  
  
The almost-smile that curved Toby's lips was worth the effort of mustering up the humor. "I'm a masochist that way," he admitted.  
  
"And my wife's a sadist."  
  
Toby lifted a sardonic brow. "Really?"  
  
He grinned and was rewarded with another Toby smirk.  
  
"Okay, sir. I've got a visual here that's going to make it hard to look at the First Lady without - "  
  
"You're probably gonna want to stop right there," Jed advised, losing a bit of his good humor.  
  
"Yes, sir." Toby had the good sense to look contrite.  
  
Controlling his illogical irritation, he smiled again at the communications director. "Abbey suggested this, did she?"  
  
Now his companion colored, caught. "Um, yes, sir."  
  
"Yeah, well, I appreciate the sacrificial offering, man," he acknowledged, wrapping an arm around Toby's shoulders and continuing his path to the Residence. "But I'd already planned to challenge C.J. to one-on-one in basketball this afternoon."  
  
"Right." Toby fell into step beside him again.  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
"Yeah. Just you and C.J. No substitutes?"  
  
Pulling his arm away, Jed confessed, "Well, I didn't say that."  
  
"Let me guess, you've just appointed Yao Ming to the President's Council on Integrity and Fair Play in Athletics."  
  
Jed decided that when he wasn't trying to be the conscience of the President Toby could be almost entertaining.  
  
"As a matter of fact," he quipped, "he's the third undersecretary."  
  
It was a nice moment, a chance to banter a bit, but Jed sensed the deadline for other matters pressing down on him again. "Thanks for the offer, Toby. Maybe later in the week."  
  
"Mister Pres - "  
  
"Maybe later," Jed repeated firmly and Toby got the message.  
  
Nodding in defeat, the younger man pulled back as Jed gently dismissed his help. He had to give the guy points for trying, anyway.  
  
Ron's steady footsteps sounded behind him as they neared the Oval Office and Jed slipped through the doors alone, closing them against Debbie Fiderer's aborted attempt to ask him how he was, relieved to let his guard down for a second, to let the weariness and pain show on his face as much as he wanted. No one watched him now. How often did that happen? Only the guards outside the windows, and they were looking toward potential danger, not at him. He took the moment to sink into the couch cushions, to stretch out his leg and massage the cramping thigh muscles.  
  
Almost hesitantly he closed his eyes, both to rest them and to test his vision again. The darkness was not what he had seen before. He had never really feared that. But the vague blurs and distorted shapes might have been even more disorienting than total blackness. Pulling himself back on task, he directed his mind to the next duty, a duty for which he needed help. Help that only one source could provide.  
  
Despite the physical difficulty the move presented, he sank to his knees, rosary clutched in his hands, and uttered a prayer that expressed gratitude for his sight, wisdom for his decisions, and mercy for his soul and the souls of the soldiers he was about to send into harm's way. When he finished, he eased the lids open, grateful, and almost surprised, to see the colors, the lines, the details of his office.  
  
Digging into his lungs for a bracing breath, he pushed back onto his feet, moved behind his desk, lifted the receiver from its cradle, and punched line two - not the one Debbie had directed him always to use. This he would do himself.  
  
When the innocent voice answered from 900 miles away, he closed his eyes again and hunched forward. "Mrs. Sonyata? This is Jed Bartlet. I'm so sorry to be calling you with this news - " 


	15. Chapter Fifteen Jed

Hope this wraps some things up for everyone. Please hang on for the epilogue to tie up a few other loose ends, as well. As always, thanks for reading!  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Posse Comitatus," "Election Night," "Inauguration: Part I" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, but we are awfully glad AS created them.  
  
They Can't That Away 15/16 A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
"The Pentagon has confirmed the crash of an Apache attack helicopter inside Qumari borders. Unconfirmed reports indicate the possibility that an American Patriot missile was responsible." The anchor's voice rose a bit to let his listeners hear the irony of that piece of information. "No word yet from the White House, but we expect Press Secretary C.J. Cregg to issue a statement within the hour." The camera angle changed, presumably for emphasis of the next statement. "Apaches have a crew of two, both traditionally warrant officers. The names of the crew have not yet been released, but they have been labeled as missing, presumed dead."  
  
The President of the United States, ultimate superior officer of those two missing, presumed dead crewmen, leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes, wondering if there had ever been a time when he really relaxed, when there was absolutely nothing in his mind more stressful than how to coax his wife into a sexy nightgown and spend the night in his arms. Not that he ever had too much trouble persuading her. Through the years, he had learned all the magic spots, had developed a technique that almost never failed to ignite her passion.  
  
He shook his head. Even without actually being there, Abbey was a sure-fire distraction. With effort, he tried to refocus his attention on the droning television. Lacking more details, the station had provided stock footage of a Patriot missile launch and now showed it over and over with running commentary by a retired lieutenant colonel that had never really done anything of much importance.  
  
He flipped a few more channels, paused for a moment to watch Lucy stomp around in a vat of grapes, then turned it off. A few minutes of napping wouldn't hurt. Leo would get him if something happened. And, even though he wouldn't admit it to anyone in the Sit Room, he was tired. The flames crackled pleasantly in the fireplace, seducing him with their rhythmic dance. Just as he leaned his head back once more, the soft call from the bedroom door pulled it up.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
Turning, he smiled as his middle daughter stepped tentatively into the room. She always stepped tentatively, he reflected. Always had, even when she was a child, as if she were afraid she might be interfering with something. For the life of him, he didn't know what had made her that way, and it caused him no small amount of guilt to think he might have had some hand in it. One day maybe he would understand her, but for now he simply gave her the most welcoming smile he could.  
  
"Ellie! Hey." He tried not to grimace as he rose, but saw from her expression that he hadn't succeeded.  
  
"Don't get up," she said quickly, moving closer.  
  
He stood anyway, determined, in some way he could not quite identify, not to show weakness in front of his daughter, not to allow the roles of parent and child to switch. Not now. Not yet. Not until - He mentally detonated that thought before he faced her again.  
  
"I'm okay." A bit of an exaggeration, but not too much.  
  
"Dad - " God, every single one of his girls could channel Abbey with precision tones.  
  
Not wanting to go there at all, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, and a small smile curved her lips. "Really, Daddy," she insisted gently. "How are you?"  
  
With a deep breath, he tried to put as much sincerity in his voice as he could. "I'm much better, Eleanor. I really am."  
  
"Well - " She hadn't completely swallowed the hook, but she decided not to tug too hard on the line.  
  
"You and Annie have fun making snow angels?" he asked before she could continue.  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
"Annie told me."  
  
"Yeah. I remember when you would drag us out after the first good snow and we'd compete to see who made the weirdest snow angel." The shy grin that lifted her face touched him from years gone by.  
  
"Who always won?" He knew the answer.  
  
"You are the master, Dad. I've never figured out how anyone can make a snow angel look like George Washington."  
  
He grinned. "It's a gift."  
  
"Yeah. But when mom came out she'd kick your butt 'cause you'd let us get all cold and wet." Ellie looked at him now and he saw an awkward, skinny ten year old cavorting with her sisters and her mother in a crisp, clean world that held none of the troubles or worries of the current screwed up universe.  
  
"Listen," she said, smile fading, "the snow's melted enough that I can get to the apartment. Back to work tomorrow."  
  
His heart sank a bit. Even as sick as he had been, it was comforting to have all his girls with him. But he knew separation was inevitable. They weren't skinny ten year olds anymore.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I just came by to say that - well, I just wanted you to know - " She shifted her gaze downward, and, as usual, her hair fell forward, obscuring her face. The direction had leaped to his tongue before he could catch it.  
  
""Lift - " But he clipped off the rest, frowning, not at her, but at his own impulse. She did look up now, those eyes vulnerable and wary. "You lift me up," he amended, "by being here. Thank you."  
  
And he knew she realized what he had done, but that seemed to mean even more than if he had planned to say that in the first place. In a swift move, she startled him by darting into his arms and hugging him tightly. He pulled her to him, trying to remember the feel of her tiny body when it could rest in the crook of his arm. How had it happened that she grew up so fast? They stood together, father and daughter, 27 years of memories and connection flowing between them. He hung on, not willing to be the one who pulled away first. Finally, he felt her body tense with movement, and she let her arms slide form around his neck. Swiping at her eyes, she spun around and disappeared from the room, leaving him shaken and comforted all at once. It was a long time before he limped back to the chair and flicked the television back on to see what the latest crisis might bring - or maybe just to watch Lucy fling smashed grapes at a belligerent Italian woman.  
The hallway was dark, darker than usual, and he found he had trouble navigating it, even though he must have walked those floors hundreds of times before. Maybe it was just that strange time between day and dark when the twilight played tricks on your eyes and you imagined shadows of shapes instead of seeing solid objects.  
  
Still, the illusion was enough to shake him a bit, make him blink his eyes to try to clear the scene before him. Abbey was waiting, was in the Residence waiting for him to come to her - and he had been caught, once again, in the unwelcome confines of the situation room, trying to hurry things along, willing someone to do something to help. It was a dead end. Nothing.  
  
The black closed in around him and he felt sudden panic when he recognized it. Not again! Please! How cruel was it to return such a precious gift only to snatch it back a few hours later. He reached out to steady himself, desperate that no one should see him struggling, that no one sensed his helplessness. The door must be just ahead, but he could barely make out the window shapes now.  
  
If he could just get to Abbey, if he could just make it into her arms, everything would be okay. He pushed forward, stumbling over a chair.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Appearing suddenly at his side, Leo grabbed one arm and levered him back to his feet. "Are you all right?"  
  
His first reaction was to brush off the concern, but he realized he might actually need Leo's assistance, so he muttered, "No," and tried to wipe his eyes clear once more.  
  
"What's wrong?" Leo asked.  
  
"Can't - can't see." An admission, a failure, a weakness. He hated it. He hated himself for allowing it.  
  
"I've got something else," Leo said, voice sad.  
  
What else could he possibly have? What else in this day?  
  
"Word from Fitz. Another Apache down."  
  
Dear God. Please not another one. Please not another two people dead.  
  
"And we think we've located another Patriot battery inside the border." The chief of staff caught his arm, almost shaking him to convey the immediacy of the crisis. "Jed, we've got to pull back. We've got to get out of this fight."  
  
If he could have seen Leo, he would have stared at him. Get out? Now? In defeat? Without the bodies of the fallen Americans, even? He breath shortened on him, coming in painful gasps. Scrambling out of Leo's grasp, he could think of only one thing.  
  
"Abbey?" He had to get to her. Had to find her.  
  
"Wait, Mister President!" Leo yelled. "I need a decision on Qumar."  
  
No. No more decisions right now. He couldn't think, couldn't focus. Don't ask me now. Don't keep asking for these decisions. There are no right ones.  
  
Leo's voice followed him, its insistence pounding into his brain. "I need your answer, sir. What do you want to do?"  
  
What should he do? He didn't know. He didn't know. Searching for the only security he knew of right then, he flung himself forward and away from the persistent questions.  
  
"Abbey?" he called out as he neared the shadowy Residence door. "Abbey!"  
  
"Jed!"  
  
Her voice came to him through the dark, a sanctuary, soothing his soul, beckoning him into the respite of her arms. He pushed toward that sound.  
  
"Jed?  
  
"Abbey?" I need you. I can't think. I can't -  
  
He shoved through the door, desperate to see her, but he couldn't see, couldn't even discern the shape of the windows anymore. He had to see her, had to look at her face. That would make things right. That would keep him going. But the room remained darker, darker even than it had been before.  
  
"Abbey!"  
  
"Jed! I'm here."  
  
He spun around, groping for her, hands out, falling over the furniture, reaching for her, but he grabbed only air. Her voice taunted him, teased him, offering only incorporeal hope, refusing him the solid comfort of her body.  
  
"Abbey!" He cried out now with one last effort before he felt himself crashing over the table to be swallowed up into the complete blackness.  
  
"Jed? You're gonna miss the Final Jeopardy question."  
  
What?  
  
His eyes snapped open and he remained still for a moment to gather his wits. The television still flashed with black and white memories on TV Land. The fire had settled to a smolder. And he still sat in the same chair, remote control resting loosely in his hand, feet propped on the coffee table.  
  
Abbey had knelt next to him and now brushed at his hair gently. "I can always get you with the promise of inane trivia," she teased, but her smile was gentle. "You okay?"  
  
He let his eyes take in her face, the crinkles at her eyes, the unique, familiar shape of her mouth. All perfectly clear and bright. With effort, he calmed his heart against the anxiety the dream had brought back. A dream, he realized. A dream, fueled by illness, exhaustion, and stress. Just a dream.  
  
Breathing out in one, quick movement, he nodded. "I'm okay," he assured her, as if she really believed that.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Abbey, I'm okay." He tried to force the confidence into the tone, but didn't figure he managed too well.  
  
"Bad dream?" she asked, still smoothing the hair at his temple.  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Wanna talk about it?" Her touch trailed down his jaw to rest on his shoulder.  
  
No, he didn't. He really didn't. "I'm okay," he repeated instead. "Ellie's gone home."  
  
"Yeah. They do that. But it was good to have her here for a while."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She pursed her lips for a moment, letting her fingers trace the letters IRISH across his chest. "Watcha thinkin' about?"  
  
Too many things, he almost said, but wanted to keep it light like she had done. "Well, I was really thinking about you in that black teddie Liz gave you for Christmas." That was true. Earlier, anyway.  
  
"Yeah?" She smiled and repeated her pattern on the sweatshirt.  
  
"Yeah. But I'm also thinking there's something a little weird about a daughter giving her mother sexy lingerie."  
  
Abbey laughed. "Know what, Jethro?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That wasn't my present."  
  
The mischief in her eyes should have warned him, but curiosity overcame any reluctance to fall for her set up. "No?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then whose - "  
  
"It was yours."  
  
The implications of his eldest daughter knowing him so well drew a rare blush to his cheeks. This only coaxed a deeper laugh from his wife, who leaned over with a light graze of her lips against his.  
  
Impulsively, he pulled her to him before she could move back, met her lips again. But the soft graze became a firm pressure, which quickly gave way to the desire he had been forced to ignore since his grand plans for Inauguration night had slid, along with his body, down that column at the Monarch Hotel.  
  
The last time his passions tried to reassert themselves - was it yesterday -- or maybe just this morning - his body sent out alerts all over. This time, no bells sounded, no warning claxons rang. This time, as his pulse accelerated, all the familiar reactions joined in eagerly.  
  
Abbey stood and threw a leg over the chair so that she straddled him, a move that pushed things ahead quickly. He felt the delicious tightness in his jeans, the flush of heat that flowed into his groin. Her breath fluttered at his ear, her hands pushed the sweatshirt up so they could run over his chest, thread through the hair. His hips arched toward her to feel her press against him, to try to relieve the ache that now controlled him. The mounting sensation took him by surprise. This was happening way too fast. If she didn't slow down he wasn't going to make it out of his pants before it was too late.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
They both jumped at the voice, their racing hearts jolted by a completely different reason now. Abbey jerked away from him and slid to the couch, her face pink, her hair scattered, but her eyes laughing. Jed took a deep breath and focused on calming his body, but there was no way he could manage to stand and confront their intruder. He glanced over his shoulder.  
  
If his skin had been lighter, Charlie's embarrassment would have shown. As it was, the chagrin in his voice revealed enough. "Uh, I'm sorry, Mister President. Doctor Bartlet."  
  
"Hey, Charlie," Abbey greeted casually. He envied her the gift of nonchalance at times like this.  
  
The young man threw a thumb hastily toward the door. "I'll just be - out - side - here - "  
  
"Too late now," Jed grumbled.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Nevermind." He motioned with his hand. "Might as well come on in, Charlie."  
  
"Yes, sir." But his stubborn position just inside the door only narrowly qualified as 'in.'  
  
"What is it?" Jed asked, trying not to show exactly how frustrated he was, while his wife grinned at him, not bothering at all to control her amusement.  
  
"Mister McGarry wanted to update you on - things." If Charlie understood what was happening, he kept that knowledge to himself.  
  
"Sit Room?" Jed figured.  
  
"No, sir. They'll ring him in for you."  
  
Still seated, Jed nodded at the aide and sometime suitor of his youngest daughter. Charlie was a good boy, although his timing could definitely improve. And if Zoey absolutely had to marry, he wouldn't mind having the young man for a son-in-law. Not a bad choice - as sons-in-law went.  
  
"Okay," he said.  
  
Charlie nodded. "Again, I'm really sorry to - "  
  
"Goodbye, Charlie," Abbey said.  
  
"Yes, m'am," he agreed pleasantly. But before he left, he braved a parting shot. "Glad to see you're feeling better, Mister President."  
  
And he was gone by the time Jed's glare bounced off the closed doors.  
  
"You are feeling better," Abbey noted. "I think maybe we can push up your recovery deadline for a few - activities."  
  
It took every ounce of control he had not to lay her out on the couch and - Right on cue, the phone rang. With a groan, Jed rose to answer it, ignoring Abbey's pointed smirk toward his strained jeans.  
  
"Hey, Leo," he greeted, turning away from his wife. "What's up?"  
  
"They're ready," Leo said simply. No need to draw it out.  
  
And suddenly the playful mood vanished. Decision time for real now. Not a dream. "Fifty percent casualties?" he asked, reminding himself, as well as Leo, of the cost.  
  
"For them."  
  
"Yeah." For a few moments, he remained silent.  
  
Finally, Leo felt led to prompt him. "Mister President?"  
  
"This is not me, Leo." Making a decision to send men into battle, to expend lives, to kill.  
  
His chief of staff hesitated at the struggle waged in his boss's tone. "No," he finally answered, "this is the President of the United States, and sometimes the President has to make decisions that Jed Bartlet wouldn't make."  
  
"Like Shareef?" Jed almost snapped out, but stopped himself just in time. He had vowed never to blame Leo for that. It was his decision. His choice. His call that murdered. His call. And this would be his, too, this order that would send U.S. troops into danger once again. This order that had already affected American lives and would soon affect Qumari lives, as well.  
  
Will Bailey had told him he put more value on American lives than Kundunese lives. It had both pissed him off and impressed him at the time, but now he really thought of it and he had to admit Will had been right. But wasn't that his job? Shouldn't he place a premium on American lives? He glanced back now, toward the sitting area and saw her face, read the unconditional love and support directed toward him. And there it was again - the blessing of sight, of facial expressions. Just looking at Abbey was his gauge.  
  
One breath. One beat. "Okay," he ordered. "Go."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
The line went dead. He sat down in the chair and Abbey moved back into his lap, her body still tempting, still willing, but the moment had passed, and a strange impulse to look at the truth, to see the inevitable, washed over him. Strangely enough, he had been the one this time to address the blunt reality. All those years of harassment about knowing his limits, about dealing with his disease finally reached him, and now, ironically, it was Abbey who resisted.  
  
He caught her hands as they crawled up his chest, almost laughed at the role reversal when she turned shocked and disappointed eyes on him.  
  
"You okay?" he asked, not sure exactly what he was expecting.  
  
"I could be better," she purred, licking at his lips.  
  
Okay. She was not making this easy. In fact, she was making things quite hard - again.  
  
"Abbey," he managed, forcing his own reaction down - with no small degree of difficulty.  
  
"Hmm?" Her hands had moved under his shirt, rubbing sensuously over his skin. He observed silently that she never had played fair.  
  
Still, he held firm. "Abbey, we need to talk."  
  
"I've got a better idea," she murmured through lips that trailed up his stomach.  
  
"Abbey," he said, swallowing hard. "I need to - we need to - Abbey, you haven't been exactly open about all this."  
  
Now she sat up, eyes wide. "Jed, I don't know how much more open I can get without stripping naked and dancing for you."  
  
Despite his resolve, his eyes lit and he grinned. "Ah, now there's an image I'm gonna hang onto."  
  
"So what's the delay, Romeo?"  
  
With a sigh, he eased her body away from his. "I didn't mean you weren't open about sex." Heaven forbid. "I meant - I meant you haven't been open about - about what's happened."  
  
Now she comprehended, and he realized it immediately from her straightened posture and cooling voice. "I haven't wanted to talk about it, is all."  
  
"All those years you tried to make me face - "  
  
"It just wasn't - I wasn't ready, Jed. Not this time. Not when I thought - "  
  
"Not when you thought this really was it," he finished for her.  
  
A chuckle, almost a snort, devoid of humor, escaped her. "You have great timing, you know, Josiah Bartlet. Here I am, throwing myself at you - "  
  
"And don't think I don't appreciate it."  
  
" - and you choose now to listen to me after ten years of nagging?"  
  
"Maybe this wasn't really 'it,'" he conceded. "Maybe it was just an episode, but that doesn't mean the next one won't - "  
  
"Jed - "  
  
"You're right. You've been right all these years. I can't go on figuring I'm invincible. I can't assume I'll always - "  
  
"Josiah!" That was the "stop-talking-now tone." He stopped and looked at her.  
  
"It doesn't matter." She held his face in her hands. "I could tell you understand. It started on election night. I don't have to convince you anymore about - about what might happen."  
  
"Abbey - "  
  
"Listen, the thing is, now or later, it doesn't matter."  
  
"I just want - "  
  
"It doesn't matter. I told you we're gonna have your back. I'm gonna have your back."  
  
Gritting his teeth to keep the emotions in check, he delivered the main point he wanted her to get. "I love you, Abigail," he told her, hoping his eyes showed the depth his voice couldn't convey. "I love you so much. If there should come a time when I can't tell you that - when I'm not able to - "  
  
"Stop," she interrupted, pressing a finger against his lips. "Don't be so stubborn. I told you it doesn't matter. I know you love me. I know it now and I'll always know it. When the time comes - and it's not here, yet - we'll deal with it."  
  
He pulled her to him, and for a moment they sat in silence, 35 years of life and love between them, knowing that if they were granted 35 more or only one more, each minute had been precious, would be precious.  
  
"Were you scared?" she asked into his chest, voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Her question took him off guard and he had to wait, had to consider the answer for a moment. Had he been scared? Apprehensive, certainly. Angry, definitely. But scared? Yes. There was one thing - one thing he had feared the most.  
  
"Was I scared?" he said in the same volume she had used. "I was scared that I would never look into your eyes again," he admitted, the honesty grating out through a throat raw with emotion.  
  
Her eyes shimmered as she lifted a hand to caress his jaw.  
  
"Because I see so much in your eyes. And I was scared I would never see what I've grown accustomed to seeing."  
  
"What's that, Jed? What do you see?"  
  
He smiled down at her, happy to have the opportunity to share with her. "I see the love that's there whenever you look at the girls, or at Annie - or at me. I see the humor that's there when you laugh with me - or sometimes at me."  
  
She smiled and turned her hand so that the back of it ran down his cheek.  
  
"I see the compassion that's there when you see your fellow human beings mistreated. I see the joy you have when you've made life better for someone. I see the fire and pleasure that's there when I make love to you. "  
  
His voice dropped now so that he whispered, too. Slowly, he nudged against her hand, pressed a kiss in the palm. "Was I scared? Oh yes, Abbey. I was scared."  
  
And he saw it all. The aching love, the humor, the compassion, the joy, the fire, all burning from her eyes. Then they were in each others' arms, tears mixing, lips soothing, hands caressing. God, he loved her so much. Yes, he was scared. He was so scared of losing her, of losing what she was to him. But right then, he was safe in her arms and she had his back, and that was all that counted.  
  
They ended up entwined on the bed, content to hold each other, her head on his shoulder, her hand against his chest, his fingers running up and down her arm. And for a little while the world left them alone. For a little while.  
He stared at the changing displays of the Sit Room, knowing they wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know - what he needed to know - but leaving his eyes on them so he wouldn't have to see everyone else's eyes on him. Ten hours plus one. Ten hours, Fitz had said, and now they were one over that. Special Ops had been on the move since early that afternoon, nighttime in Qumar. They had crossed the border sometime within the past two hours and gone quite. Nothing. No signal, no communication at all. Despite the fading weakness in his leg, Jed paced, unable to keep still, to wait patiently for someone to tell him they had lost the unit - or the battery - or worse. It always seemed to be worse.  
  
Nancy talked in low tones to some of the advisors. Leo leaned against the table, eyes shifting between the screens and the President. Jed felt it, knew his friend was keeping a close watch on him.  
  
"Anything?" he blurted out, knowing what they answer would be, but unable to stop his impatience.  
  
"It'll happen," Leo assured him quietly, his voice low, calming.  
  
"I know it'll happen," Jed said, sarcasm coloring his tone. "But it's WHAT will happen that bothers me. We're over an hour - "  
  
"It'll happen," the chief of staff insisted, but Jed heard the doubt there, too. They had no guarantees. Things had gone wrong before.  
  
The shrill blast of the phone startled them all. Nancy stepped to answer it, her responses soaked up by every eager ear in the room. He watched her profile, strong and calm, as she listened.  
  
"McNally. Right. You're sure? Yes. Yes. All right. Hang on."  
  
She turned to them, lowering the receiver and covering it with her hand. Jed resisted the urge to jerk it away from her and find out for himself what had happened.  
  
"The target has been destroyed, sir," she reported evenly, only the hint of a smile on her lips. The room remained oddly quiet. Success in bombing your own equipment was not necessarily cause for too much celebration.  
  
Deliberately, he kept a blank expression. Okay. Good. "Casualties?"  
  
"Twenty-five killed or wounded Qumari in the vicinity of the attack."  
  
He breathed out and was still pleased that he could feel sorrow, even for the enemy. "For us?"  
  
"One casualty, Mister President. Superficial."  
  
He breathed deeply in relief. Better. Much better. Dear God, thank you. Thank you. "All right. Tell your guys they did well - "  
  
But she shook her head and he stopped. "There's something else, sir." Her eyes were cautious, the emotion muted. "Admiral Fitzwallace needs to talk with you."  
  
She held out the receiver and he hesitated. Fitz had been at the Pentagon during the mission, and now he just couldn't let them have a victory, could he? Nothing was easy, anymore. Nothing was black and white. Too much gray. Slowly he eased to the phone and raised the receiver to his good ear.  
  
"Mister President?" Fitz's voice was guarded, revealing nothing.  
  
"Yeah." Do I want to hear this? "Good job, Fitz."  
  
"Thank you, sir. I just wanted to let you know we've recovered the two crewmen."  
  
His eyes closed briefly. At least that was something. At least he could give those families the closure of returning their loved ones. Some compensation. "Okay."  
  
A strange sound came from the line and Jed realized with an angry jolt that Fitz was chuckling. What the hell could he find amusing at a time like this?  
  
"I don't think you heard what I said, Mister President."  
  
Suppressing the growing fury, Jed tried to keep his voice calm. "I heard you, Admiral. You recovered the bodies - "  
  
"No, sir," Fitz interrupted. "I said we recovered the crewmen."  
  
As a scholar, Josiah Bartlet understood that syntax frequently played a pivotal role in directing meaning. His mind raced to slide the grammatical puzzle pieces in place. What had Fitz said? What had he meant? And what did the simple alteration of his sentence signify? He hoped it meant what he thought. He yearned for it to.  
  
"You've recovered - Fitz, they're alive? Are you telling me they're alive?'' His eyes caught Nancy's and he briefly contemplated if it would be completely undignified to bear hug the National Security Advisor in the Situation Room.  
  
"Yes, sir," Fitz was saying. "We've got both Apache pilots. Alive."  
  
Dear God. "Sonyata and Barkston?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Are they - are they all right?"  
  
"Not too bad. Sonyata's got a dislocated shoulder and some facial injuries. Barkston's severely dehydrated and has a broken collarbone."  
  
"Where are they now?"  
  
"On their way to Ramstein."  
  
Thank you, God. "Okay. Have their families been notified?"  
  
The smile was evident even over the phone lines. "No, sir. I thought maybe you'd like -"  
  
Jed hoped his gratitude bled through his voice. "Yeah. I'd like. Thanks, Fitz."  
  
"Yes, Mister President."  
  
He hung up, and for a moment everyone stared. It was Nancy who let out the whoop that was followed by everyone else. In lieu of the bear hug, he contented himself with holding Leo's gaze until the grin on his old friend's face matched his own.  
  
The walk back to Oval was shorter, lighter than before. He managed it even without a trace of a limp. Two calls to make, then he would find Abbey again, and maybe there would be no interruptions this time. Maybe for one night he could find, in her arms, the solace and the celebration he needed.  
  
When he eased himself into the chair, he placed the call himself, line one. This time his heart did not labor under the burden of his message. After two rings, the line picked up, and even though it was midnight, the person at the other end didn't sound as if she had been asleep.  
  
"Mrs. Sonyata? This is Jed Bartlet." He heard the sudden tension and smiled with the knowledge he was about to share. This was one of the few calls he didn't mind making. "I have some news for you - " 


	16. Epilogue Everyone

This last part is a bit different, since we are trying to wrap up so many thoughts and experiences. Hope you bear with us and that it's not too confusing. Thanks so much for all the great feedback and encouragement.  
  
My special thanks to Linda for her inspiring ideas and suggestions - and for putting Jed in that predicament to start with. It was a fun collaboration.  
  
Please enjoy!  
  
POV: Multiple Spoilers: "Pilot," "Process Stories" Rating: R Disclaimer: These characters are not ours.  
They Can't Take That Away - 16/16 - Epilogue  
  
A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon  
Walter Reed Army Medical Center January 28, 2003 3:27 p.m.  
  
POV: Ron Butterfield, Secret Service Agent in charge of POTUS Detail  
  
It was second nature to him now, eyes scanning the crowd, instinctively knowing what should and shouldn't be there. He didn't even have to think about it much anymore. But he knew if necessary, his body would move involuntarily, propel him to the right place at the right time. He wasn't the front man that afternoon, even though he had been before. His place was behind. He had the President's back today.  
  
For a second he let his eyes cross in front of him to glance at his charge, to take a quick assessment of the man he was protecting. His thoughts blinked back eight days before to the surreal moments in a swirling blizzard when he wasn't sure exactly what they were facing as he practically carried the President of the United States through the halls of the White House. Sick. Jed Bartlet had been very sick.  
  
Now he allowed himself to linger just a bit on the man before him, satisfying himself again that this was indeed Josiah Bartlet, energetic, charismatic, controlled. He had strode through the corridors of Walter Reed Hospital, pumped from a brief visit to the two recovering Apache crewmen who had been rescued from Qumar. And his joy wasn't just that they had all been spared a complicated international incident. It was much more personal. His deep relief and genuine gratitude for the soldiers' safety escaped no one who saw him. Ron didn't think he could have been happier even for a member of his own family.  
  
As they stepped into the cold day, Bartlet headed toward the rope lines. No surprise there. Ron braced himself, hating every moment of this, but knowing there was no way Jed Bartlet would ever pass this up. It connected him to the people. It was where he lived, where he wanted to be - where he had to be. The sheer adoration of their faces would be enough to send even the most grounded of men into a power trip, but Josiah Bartlet couldn't allow himself too much self-congratulations, too much arrogance. His own morals - and his all-too-human body - kept him among the rest of the mortals. And he was mortal; they had all been terrifyingly reminded of that. But the experience did nothing to diminish the man in Ron's eyes. On the contrary, the strength of will he saw during those difficult days revealed a depth of character Ron had previously only assumed was there.  
  
No, Jed Bartlet was not at all what he had expected four years before. He was much more.  
  
Ron glanced at the crowds and watched their elation at being given such intimate access to their President. Eager hands reached toward him, gleeful faces cheered him over - their chance to touch the man, to brush a part of history.  
  
"Ron!" Without breaking his rhythm, without missing an outstretched hand, Bartlet called over his shoulder to the agent.  
  
"Sir?" Immediate answer. He relied on the other agents to scan the crowd.  
  
"D'ya find it?" More handshakes. As people passed small tokens and gifts, he smoothly guided them into Charlie Young's grasp.  
  
"No problem, Mister President," Ron assured him, managing not to smile. That certainly wouldn't be seemly right here in front of everyone. It would dispel their image of the stone-faced secret service.  
  
"Not loanin' this one out," the President declared, still smiling and clasping as many hands as he could, obviously sensing that Ron's anxiousness would soon pull him back.  
  
"No, sir," the agent agreed.  
  
"Okay, then," Bartlet said, as if that settled some unresolved issue.  
  
The entourage moved en mass toward the limo, the President continuing his waves and grins all the way. It wasn't until they reached the door that he allowed the public façade to fade a bit, but Ron noticed the true enjoyment he received from the crowds still colored his expression. Sliding in beside him, he took the time to look more closely, and decided he liked what he saw.  
  
His boss was neither pale and still, nor flushed and shaking any longer. In fact, he fairly exuded health, even though Ron had seen how seriously ill he had been only days before. Partly show? Maybe, but there was no doubting a remarkable recovery, a resurrection, almost. And if Ron had not been just a little afraid of seeming blasphemous, he would have said so.  
The Oval Office January 28, 2003 4:52 p.m.  
  
POV: Leo McGarry, Chief of Staff  
  
"I'm tellin' you, Leo, it was incredible, a miracle. These two people spent hours right under the noses of the Qumari and they never saw them. Not once."  
  
Josiah Bartlet's chief of staff watched his President pace the floor of the most powerful office in the world, grinning like a kid, waving his arms in animated illustration of his description. It was a sight he would never tire of, and it was a welcome one from the dark visions of the previous week.  
  
"They are well-trained soldiers, sir. They practice things like that." But he was impressed, too, despite his need to pull Jed Bartlet back from the clouds every once in a while.  
  
"Yeah, maybe," the President conceded, settling down and leaning back against his desk. "But I still think there were more than just mortal hands involved here." He glanced toward his friend, as if challenging him to deny that observation.  
  
Although he could not profess to the depth of faith Josiah Bartlet had, Leo still felt the touch of a higher power at work. "Yes, sir," he agreed, pleased to see Jed's smile.  
  
"Okay, what's the latest from the Saudis? Were we at all persuasive from our end?"  
  
Leo figured that destroying a Patriot missile battery and killing 25 Qumaris should have been damned persuasive, but so far no definitive information had slipped through their network. "They're working at it, again. The ambassador's back in discussions now."  
  
Sometimes he hated taking the diplomatic route. Sometimes it would just be easier to bomb the hell out of them and get rid of the menace once and for all. But he knew that wasn't Jed's way. Could never be Jed's way. Because ultimately, Jed Bartlet stood for peace and for compassion - and sometimes his view of justice was far too global for the nationalistic tendencies Leo felt. They had crossed that with Shareef. He still believed it was the right decision. It was the only decision, and Jed had made it. But it didn't keep Leo from a little guilt every time he looked into his friend's eyes and saw the lingering anguish over that choice.  
  
"They'll move," he assured the President. "They'll move."  
  
After a moment, Jed nodded. "Yeah. Let me know, will you, when they do."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Really," he insisted, pushing off from the desk. "As soon as you know, all right?"  
  
"As soon as?"  
  
"Leo - "  
  
"Okay. As soon as I know." Leaning over to lift a folder from the chair, he found himself grinning a little, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Thought you might want to see this."  
  
Jed looked up, eyes curious. God, it was good to see those eyes sharp and comprehending again. Good to see his friend whole. Still, Leo never held doubts that he could not have completely fulfilled his duties had his sight not returned. No doubts at all. Because he knew Josiah Bartlet - and Josiah Bartlet's strength came from much deeper.  
  
Pulling the papers out, he placed two photographs in the President's hands. One was the one he had brought him several days before, the one that showed the Patriot battery at the border, the one Jed had not actually seen. The other was the latest recon photo, showing the destruction of that same battery. Before he even opened his mouth to explain, Bartlet had slipped on his glasses and was nodding.  
  
"I've never seen such convincing before and after shots," he said, with a hint of a smile. "My God, we have some power, don't we?"  
  
"That we do, Mister President," Leo agreed.  
  
"And that's why - " He dropped the pictures into a chair and strolled to the massive window behind his desk, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and staring for a few minutes.  
  
Leo let him have his time. The guilt still hovered, would always hover. Finally, he turned, having shaken off the heavy burden - for a while, anyway.  
  
"Listen, I know I said we could work on the tax proposal tonight, but Abbey wants to - well, I thought maybe we could put that off until - " His heightened color told Leo enough to know he was being dumped and why. And he didn't blame Jed a bit.  
  
"Sure. It'll wait until tomorrow," he agreed, enjoying the sheepish grin that had lifted his friend's mouth.  
  
"Okay. By the way, that's the last time I loan you my Dean Martin CD."  
  
With an attempt at innocence, Leo spread his hands. "What?"  
  
"You know. You needed some - mood - music for an evening with Jordan, and I, like the unselfish friend I am, said, 'Leo, let me help. Take my CD. She'll love it. I have proof it works.'"  
  
"As I recall I declined to see your proof."  
  
"Yeah, well, nevertheless you took it."  
  
"And I returned it."  
  
The animated gestures returned. "Scratched, Leo. It's scratched. On the best song, too."  
  
He had forgotten about that. Had meant to buy Jed a new one, but the overpowering memory of that night somehow erased any previously determined intentions. "How do you know I did it? How do you know it wasn't scratched before?"  
  
"I know, Leo." He sat on the couch and stretched his legs before him, smiling in benevolent absolution. "But it's okay. I forgive you. You loaned me something once and it got a little scratched, too, so we're even."  
  
Leo's eyebrows bounced in surprise. "You think a fifteen dollar CD balances out a four thousand dollar bike? And I think maybe 'mutilated' is a more fitting description of - "  
  
"It's the principle, Leo," he insisted, rising again with that accustomed unsettled energy they were all glad to see. "I didn't crash your damn bike on purpose."  
  
"No, sir, and I didn't scratch your CD on purpose, either."  
  
Bartlet shrugged, shuffling through the remaining set of papers he had not yet dealt with on his desk. "Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. Ron's taken care of it."  
  
"Don't you have other CDs, Mister President? Sinatra works for Abbey, too, doesn't he?" That was a risk, just to get a rise. Leo could have fun, too.  
  
"Not the same - " He looked up and pulled off his glasses. "Wait, how do you know Sinatra works for Abbey?"  
  
Leo grinned. For someone so sharp, Jed could be quite gullible sometimes.  
  
"Nevermind," the President grumbled, throwing a dismissive hand at his friend. "Anyway, I told you Ron got me another one. And don't bother asking for it."  
  
He headed toward the doors to the portico, toward the gleaming sunlight, and for a moment, the late afternoon beams that flooded through the windows shone off the blondish highlights of his hair, casting the illusion of a halo. Leo envisioned a resurrection and wondered if it was blasphemous to think such things. Jed would certainly tell him so, but he couldn't help making the analogy. Just as quickly, the President moved and the vision disappeared.  
  
"Mister President?" he called, already bracing for the certain protest.  
  
"Yeah?" Jed threw back without bothering to turn around.  
  
"Your coat?"  
  
Sure enough, Bartlet spun back to glare at his chief of staff, exasperation clouding his blue eyes. "Are you ever gonna quit with that? I'm tellin' you, I don't need - "  
  
"Fine," Leo interrupted. "Get another ear infection. I'll just remind Ron and Charlie to bring their swim trunks this time."  
  
If he had been a lesser man, he would have recoiled from the glower that radiated under those furrowed brows. As it was, he still couldn't suppress a slight flinch. Jed had stopped, body shifted so that one shoulder dropped a bit, one leg took most of his weight. It was a familiar stance, one he struck when contemplating serious things. And he held it in a perfect freeze for almost a half minute. Leo fought the desire to fidget, instead, steadily returning the hard gaze.  
  
Finally, Bartlet pursed his lips and exhaled sharply. Without a word, he stepped to his chair, snatched the jacket from its back, and flipped it expertly over his head. With only a small smile of victory - he didn't dare more - Leo followed his commander in chief out into the brisk Washington afternoon.  
The Oval Office January 28, 2003 11:04 p.m.  
  
POV: Charles Young, Personal Aid to the President  
  
"Mister President?" Charlie stood in the doorway to the Oval Office, watching as his boss rubbed his eyes wearily. It had only been a few days since the very real scare of a relapse and no one had convinced him Jed Bartlet was completely ready to return to a full day's work. But he had anyway, no surprise to any of them. Now he stretched out in his chair, feet propped on the historical desk, papers scattered all over it and into his lap.  
  
Without looking up, he answered absently. "Yeah?"  
  
"You 'bout through for the night, sir?"  
  
With a sigh, he stopped rubbing his eyes, but still did not make visual contact. Instead he let his gaze focus again on the papers. "In a little while, Charlie. I still have a few things to do."  
  
Other nights, the body man would have withdrawn quietly, following his subtle orders without question. But tonight he carried orders from an even higher power.  
  
"Mister President, Mrs. Bartlet instructed me to tell you that Cinderella leaves the ball at midnight."  
  
This time, he threw his left arm in front of him, eyes searching. "What time is it?"  
  
"After eleven, sir."  
  
The glasses dropped from his hand onto the desk and the chair creaked as he let his body fall forward and his feet hit the floor. Charlie had officially gotten the attention of the President of the United States.  
  
And it wasn't two minutes before he was alone in the room, straightening papers, turning off lights, and pushing in the chair. Smiling, he let his eyes follow the quickly retreating stride of his boss and offered thanks that they had survived the past week.  
  
And maybe one day he would actually believe it had all happened. It still amazed him that Josiah Bartlet was shocked over what he and Ron had done for him. He owed the man more than he would ever know. How do you repay someone for changing your life? Maybe one day he would get the opportunity. Maybe when Zoey finally gave in and realized they should be together, maybe when he convinced her to marry him, maybe then they could work on it. He grinned wider at the thought that one day he might give Josiah Bartlet something he didn't have yet. Yes, he figured the President wouldn't mind a grandson. Whistling with renewed determination, he flicked off the last light and closed the door.  
The White House Residence January 28, 2003 11:49 p.m.  
  
POV: Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States  
  
Dean Martin's rich crooning floated across the room, serenading the couple that moved in a slow, sensuous dance by the flickering light of a fire. It was the same CD Jed had used on election night and since it had worked beautifully then, he figured it had earned the right to lead in the current evening. Lucky he had discovered the marred surface in time to have Ron replace it. Maybe later he'd let Leo off the hook and admit to scratching it himself, but tonight it didn't seem to matter that much. As Dean warbled into his favorite song, "Love Me, My Love," he pulled Abbey's head gently against his shoulder and sang softly with the mellow tones, creating a few of his own lyrics as he went.  
  
"Love me, my love, And say, 'Oh my.'"  
  
Smiling, she snuggled closer, slipping her right hand between them to run her fingers over his groin, "Oh my," she complied in her dark, husky voice.  
  
He closed his eyes and pressed into her touch, urging their bodies into one motion that followed the music. Dean continued his romantic plea.  
  
"Tell me, my love, In words divine, That we will never part, Stay very close to my heart."  
  
He was aware of her soft breasts pressing into him, thrusting up against his ribs. She raised both arms around his neck and drew his head down so that their lips met, her mouth warm and mobile beneath his. He felt the urge to say something significant, to set this moment to memory, but nothing eloquent came to him. He would just have to rely on his body to say it.  
  
Still swaying against each other, they both closed their eyes, relying on touch alone to continue the building desire. Jed ran a finger around the lace border of the black teddie Liz had given her - or him. He tried not to think about that. Occasionally, he dipped to brush a nipple. She moaned encouragingly with each caress and let her own hands wander over his hips, tugging him closer against her. Even after 35 years he had not grown passive about holding her in his arms. He yearned for it, ached for the familiar longing that swept over him every time she was near. With a silent laugh, he admitted he felt it even when she was not near. Just the whisper of her name through his thoughts was enough to wipe away all other considerations.  
  
"No sweeter bliss, No more than this, Could I ever know. Your tenderness, Your sweet caress, How it thrills me so."  
  
And it was bliss, as she ran those talented fingers over his chest and pushed the robe off his shoulders, following with her lips, nipping at his chest hair, swirling around his navel. She had dropped to her knees and the anticipation of what she was about to do had driven his heart rate skyward. He let his hands tangle gently in her mussed hair as she took him in slowly, tauntingly.  
  
"Give me your love, Your heart and soul. Take me to heaven above, And say you love me, my love."  
  
Oh yes, she was, indeed, taking him to heaven. Answering the music, he groaned, "I love you, Abbey."  
  
Her eyes looked up at him and he caught his breath at the erotic scene. God, he had to concentrate not to give in right there to the wet heat that surrounded him. His mind searched for something, anything to break the overwhelming surge toward climax.  
  
"Mister President?" The call, accompanied by a tentative knock at the door did the trick.  
  
Startled, Abbey jerked back, letting him go and standing in one quick movement. He groaned and fell against the couch back, arms braced behind him, lungs fighting for the air that had been robbed from them by both excitement and surprise.  
  
When he had enough oxygen to do it, he swore, one swift, explosive word that was, in his opinion, the most satisfying bit of profanity there was. And Abbey didn't bother to scold him this time. Instead, she took her own deep breath and echoed it.  
  
The rap sounded again, this time a little more hesitant, as if their intruder had realized his mistake, but decided it was too late to take it back. Jed wouldn't have minded if he'd tried, though.  
The White House Residence January 29, 2003 12:06 a.m.  
  
POV: Claudia Jean Cregg, White House Press Secretary  
  
C.J. stood outside the doors to the Residence, hands clasping and unclasping nervously. It had become apparent as soon as the agent knocked on the door that she had made a monumental error. What was she thinking, anyway? It was after midnight, for Pete's sake. Still, the President usually kept late hours, so maybe he wasn't in bed, yet. And this was pretty important. Right? What had seemed quite convincing earlier lost some of its imperativeness in retrospect - and in the face of mounting evidence that this was definitely not a good time to come calling on the Chief Executive, despite Leo's insistence.  
  
She heard a call from behind the doors, a curt snap of an order to enter. Not encouraging at all. The agent pushed them open for her, and she toyed with the idea of just making a break for it right then, but there were too many witnesses to get away with it. And the President knew where she lived.  
  
Her fears, which had materialized too late, were realized as she entered and took in the scene before her. A blazing fire, romantic music, half- empty champagne glasses, and - worst of all - sheets turned down on the bed, all told too convincing a story. Dear God, what had she done?  
  
And the appearance of the First Couple only cemented the case. Despite their attempt at nonchalance, they had obviously been - involved - only moments before. Abbey lounged on the couch, a silken robe cinched around her waist, but her lips were red and full, and her cheeks flushed. The President stood next to her, and she realized with a wave of embarrassment that he wore only a robe, its v-neck coming to mid-chest, revealing the thick patch of graying hair there. He had positioned himself behind the arm of the couch - strategically, she surmised with a fresh blush - and his greeting was polite, but certainly not inviting.  
  
"Good evening, C.J."  
  
She cleared her throat before attempting to speak. "Mister President. Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
"What can I do for you?" he asked, again with measured courtesy.  
  
"I'm - I'm really sorry about disturbing you," she began. They couldn't begin to know how really, really sorry she was. Visions of Liz bounding into their kitchen those many years ago flashed through her brain. They couldn't catch a break, could they? Now she was just taking the place of an 11-year-old.  
  
"What is it, C.J.?" Abbey prompted, her voice also polite, but carrying the hint of urgency. In other words, get on with it.  
  
"Right. Okay. I just got a heads up from a Post reporter that Qumar has notified their field correspondents to pull back."  
  
She saw the President's head tilt up in interest, and used that as an indication to continue. "They're moving out, pulling back from the border."  
  
Bartlet pressed his lips together for a moment before nodding to her. "Okay. Thanks, C.J."  
  
That was it. That was all she had expected, really, except maybe a smile from him, maybe acknowledgment that all the work he had put into stabilizing the situation in the region was worth it for this moment. But she had long come to realize Josiah Bartlet didn't always do the expected.  
  
"Thank you, Mister President," she said, backing out, anxious to leave them to their privacy, hoping she hadn't destroyed the mood too much. "And again, I'm sorry, sir. Leo told me - well, I'm sorry."  
  
This time he took a step forward, head cocked, brow down. "Wait a minute. Leo sent you?"  
  
"Yes, sir. He said it was important that you - " And suddenly she realized it. She'd been had. And by the Chief of Staff to the President, of all people. "I'm gonna kill him," she muttered in the midst of more apologies as she made a hasty retreat.  
  
"C.J.?" When she reached the door, his voice stopped her.  
  
Sheepishly, she turned. "Sir?"  
  
"It's okay. You did a good job this week." And there it was. The smile she wanted to see - needed to see - to assure her that all was right again. "Thank you for - well, thank you."  
  
She knew he could tell she understood exactly what he was saying. "Now go home," he ordered, his eyes warm.  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister President. And sir?"  
  
He tilted his chin up with a quick jerk, inviting her to speak.  
  
"You and Mrs. Bartlet have a nice evening."  
  
This time, he was the one to blush. C.J. grinned back, a strange sense of joy filling her with the knowledge that these two people she admired so very much could share such love and pleasure with each other.  
  
But it was more than that, she knew. They didn't just share it with each other; their special connection touched everyone around them, whether they meant for it to or not. And she was just glad she had the chance to experience it.  
The White House Residence January 29, 2003 12:25 a.m.  
  
POV: Abigail Bartlet, First Lady of the United States  
  
She couldn't help but chuckle as C.J. closed the doors. Chalk one up for Leo. "Come on, Prince Charming," she coaxed, sliding off the couch to slip her arms around him from behind. "It's after midnight."  
  
He grunted and covered her hands with his. "You're not gonna disappear, are you, Cinderella?"  
  
"Not a chance," she assured him, untying the robe again and urging him to turn into her arms.  
  
"You know," he began, his tone way too professorial for the mood. She rolled her eyes, which he ignored. "I thought Prince Charming was the guy who kissed Snow White and brought her back to life."  
  
Her hands ran up his chest and pushed the robe off his shoulders again. "Nah. That was Prince Phillip."  
  
"I thought he married Queen Elizabeth," he muttered, trailing his lips between her breasts.  
  
She swallowed the moan that rose in her throat. "The, um, the fairy tale, Jethro."  
  
"Then you mean the guy that married Sleeping Beauty."  
  
Now his fingers had danced all the way down her abdomen to flit like butterflies between her legs. Who the hell gave a damn about fairy tales anyway? She could stop this line of conversation easily. With a calculated grin, she curled her fingers around his swelling erection and squeezed.  
  
The groan that slipped from his lips told her he had forgotten all about Cinderella. She intended for him to know reality now. The CD player had switched discs and Sinatra's voice floated about them, his lyrics piercing her heart with a strangely disturbing sensation. It took a moment for her to realize why.  
  
"The way you wear your hat, The way you sip your tea, The memory of all that, No, they can't take that away from me.  
  
The way your smile just beams, The way you sing off key, The way you haunt my dreams, No, they can't take that away from me."  
  
She had stopped her caresses and pulled him to her, as if her arms could shield him from the outside world, from the memory of what happened last time that song played. They wouldn't take it away from him, not if she could help it. Still, logic told her they couldn't stop time, couldn't keep what was to be from happening - if it was truly to be. With a little sob, she clutched him tighter.  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
Damn. She hadn't meant to let this evening be anything but a sensual night of lovemaking. Hadn't meant to bring any baggage with her.  
  
"It's nothing," she lied. "Let's go to bed."  
  
But he wouldn't let her move, held her close to him and tossed her hair gently with his fingers. "It's okay, Abbey," he said, and she wanted to believe him. God, how she wanted to believe him. "I've got your back."  
  
The tears came then, not the sobs of release she had allowed herself when he regained his sight, but the steady trickle of deep emotion that was testament to her acceptance of his love and her unconditional return of it.  
  
He kissed the salty trails down her cheeks, let his tongue move down her neck, let his fingers slide the lace from her body. And they stood together, nothing between them, nothing separating them, their bodies yearning for the familiar touches, touches that had grown even more electric as the years went by. She found herself on the bed, hips straining toward his mouth as he let his tongue tease her and drive her toward the heights she desired. But he stopped before she got there, and as he hovered over her, she saw the dark passion on his face, felt him shaking in an attempt to control his own urges.  
  
"Jed," she whispered, reaching to guide him home, arching upward to meet him, to join them sooner, to fill the ache inside.  
  
"No, no," he crooned, almost as smoothly as Dean Martin, or Sinatra. "I'm in charge here, Cinderella. Just relax."  
  
Relax? With what he was doing to her?  
  
His hair fell forward, his jaw clenched, his eyes turned almost gray, as he pushed into her, bracing on his hands, not touching her anywhere except that one spot. She fought off the impulse to grab his hips, to pull him hard against her. This was too good, too erotic to hurry. With agonizing leisure, he let his body ease lower, let her feel the slow stretch, the piercing heat. And she did. Oh God, she did.  
  
He smiled down at her, a smile that smoldered, a smile that challenged her to meet him with the same fire that was now burning inside her. Well, she could do that. He pulled out again, just as slowly, but this time the plunge back was a little harder. Her hips met his, her legs slid up to wrap around him, to draw him back inside each time he withdrew.  
  
She wasn't sure how long they continued like that, wouldn't have thought either one of them could have lasted, but when she became aware that his thrusts had picked up in rhythm and power, yet another CD had cycled through the player. Mel Torme, in his smoky tones, urged them on now.  
  
Jed's eyes were hooded, clouded with passion, and she leaned her head back and moaned as his hands moved on her. She knew that seeing her reactions always enflamed him even more. Sure enough, he pushed harder into her, reached between her legs to bring her with him. He need not have bothered. She was right there all along.  
  
The waves started inside, but pushed outward with growing force until they swept over her in agonizing spasms, jerking her body against his and drawing a ragged cry from her throat.  
  
"Abbey!" he groaned as her body convulsed around him, and she felt the pulses swell and push through him until they erupted in powerful bursts deep inside her. She clung to him, meeting his thrusts, wanting never to let the incredible sensation end, wanting to hang on to the overwhelming pleasure for as long as possible.  
  
But, as always, they came down from the high, collapsing against each other in the marvelous fatigue of sexual and physical fulfillment. He lay on top of her for a while longer and she treasured the feeling of still being connected. It was perhaps even more intimate than the act itself. Finally, he grunted in satisfaction and withdrew, drawing her to him as he flipped the covers over their cooling skin.  
  
"Happy Inauguration," she whispered to him.  
  
"A week late," he observed ruefully.  
  
She smiled into his chest. "Worth the wait?" Her tone was teasing, but his answer was not.  
  
"Abigail, you're worth everything I could ever do or have - and more."  
  
Not fair. He wasn't playing fair.  
  
Unable to respond, she just hugged him to her and closed her eyes, savoring the moment, committing to memory the feel of his body against hers, the sound of his rich voice at her ear, the sight of his cool blue eyes reaching into her soul. They couldn't take that away from her, not ever, not even when - if - they had to face their worst fears.  
  
But Hackett's report from Bethesda was good. No significant progression. No sign of moving into the next phase. Didn't mean it wouldn't, but didn't mean it would. They were in the same place they had been. But that was okay. They could stay there forever, it she had a choice.  
  
As his breathing deepened, she propped up on an elbow and watched him, just as she had watched him for 35 years. Watched him through joys, through sorrows, through health, through illness, through highs, through lows. No, whatever the future held for them, there were things that could never be taken away.  
  
Lying back against his shoulder, she wrapped an arm and a leg over him, in protection and in possession. And maybe later she would wake him and they would celebrate inauguration again - and this time she'd be in charge.  
  
End  
Song Lyrics  
  
"Love Me, My Love"  
  
P. Medley and V. Abrams  
  
"Love me, my love And say you're mine. Kiss me and hold me tight. Let's make the most of tonight.  
  
Tell me, my love, In words divine, That we will never part. Stay very close to my heart.  
  
No sweeter bliss, No more than this, Could I ever know. Your tenderness, Your sweet caress, How it thrills me so.  
  
Give me your love, Your heart and soul. Take me to heaven above, And say you love me, my love."  
  
"They Can't Take That Away From Me"  
  
George and Ira Gershwin  
  
"There are many many crazy things That will keep me loving you And with your permission May I list a few.  
  
The way you wear your hat, The way you sip your tea, The memory of all that, No they can't take that away from me.  
  
The way your smile just beams, The way you sing off key, The way you haunt my dreams, No they can't take that away from me.  
  
We may never, never meet again, on that bumpy road to love, But I'll always, always keep the memory of  
  
The way you hold your knife, The way we danced till three, The way you changed my life, No they can't take that away from me." 


End file.
